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

  An evil force, with no qualms, no conscience, no love, had taken everything away from him. Everything gone.

  Just gone.

  But the monster that had taken his world had also sought to take Cameron’s life. It had breathed upon him that deadly gas that had swelled the lungs of the female corpse on Mr Treve’s dissecting table. And it would surely have killed him, too, had he not had the foresight to breathe out rather than in when the murderous vapour came upon him. This quickest of thinkings had saved his life, as it had upon more than one occasion.

  But saved his life for what?

  That he should experience this? The violation of all he held precious? To have to see and feel all this?

  Cameron dragged himself from his study, slammed shut the door. A door that itself was scoured by scratch marks. He slumped down upon the lowermost stair and buried his face in his hands and wept.

  There was no purpose now, no reason to continue.

  Cameron gazed up between his fingers towards the floor above. He would not go up there to see what horrors awaited him.

  He would never climb those stairs again.

  Cameron Bell took steadying breaths, but he shook from his head to his feet.

  All that was precious was gone.

  All that was precious was gone.

  A mantra of gloom and desperation repeating itself again and again in his head.

  All that was precious— But no.

  There was something precious that had not been destroyed. Someone precious. Someone that he loved most dearly. It was an unrequited love, certainly, and one that might remain so. But it was a love. And— Cameron Bell examined his dangling pocket watch.

  Somehow it had survived. And it was still ticking, too. He sought his pince-nez, but they were gone. He squinted at the watch.

  ‘Eight-thirty,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I might still reach the Crystal Palace in time. If she is in danger, I must be there to protect her.’

  But was she in danger? Was there any reason why she should be in danger? The creature certainly sought the Ring of Moses and not finding it here— But how did it find my house? wondered Cameron. If it can find me, then it can find her.

  Cameron Bell arose from the stair, straightened his ruined clothes as best he could, drew a deep breath and took a long, thoughtful look around. He must leave this house mow and he knew that he would never, could never return. All was gone and all that mattered now was Alice.

  Cameron took himself along the hall, turning on the gas mantles as he did so. As the dreadful smell of coal gas seeped into the air, Cameron plucked up a broken candle that had been torn from an antique candlestick. Them he took out his lucifers, lit the candle and placed it upon the floor.

  ‘Farewell, home of my childhood and my life,’ said Cameron Bell, and he left the house and closed the door behind him.

  The driver of the hansom cab that picked up Cameron Bell upon the corner enquired as to whether his fare would like to reach his destination at a leisurely stroll, or in the fashion of a batsman out of ‘ell.

  Cameron requested the latter and named the Crystal Palace.

  ‘It’s you, guv’nor,’ said the cabby. ‘You as ‘ad me chasin’ around ‘yde Park Corner after that Johnny Frenchman with the gun. Did you ever catch the blighter, guv’nor?’

  Cameron Bell sank low in seat. ‘No,’ said he. ‘But when I do, he will know a terrible end.’

  There was something so cold and deadly in the manner in which his fare spoke those words that the driver of the cab closed the little hatchway and applied himself to his trade with no further wish for small talk.

  A loud, dull thump rattled the windows of the cab. The private detective turned a deaf ear to the explosion that brought down the house he had lived in for all of his life.

  Cameron Bell patted himself What remained? Did he have money? Did he have his pistol? He found sufficient coinage in his trouser pocket to pay the driver of the hansom. But his pistol was gone. And so too was his wallet, which contained, of course, the ticket for tonight’s performance.

  Oh, be there, prayed Cameron Bell. Be there in my seat. For surely I will strangle you slowly with my own bare hands.

  It was a pleasant summer’s evening, and as the hansom reached the suburbs, the trees gave off their sleeping scents and nightjars sang in slumbering cottage gardens.

  But Mr Bell could find no beauty here. He sought to protect the woman he loved and he sought a most terrible vengeance on the creature that had wrought such evil upon him.

  As they approached the Crystal Palace, the driver flipped open the little hatchway and chirped, ‘This’ll cheer you up, guv’nor. A nice night out with ALICE AT THE PALACE. I’ll be going there myself tomorrow. I always ‘as Saturdays off.’

  ‘It is Friday tomorrow,’ Cameron wearily corrected the errant driver of the cab. Not that he really had the energy to do so.

  ‘No, guv’nor.’ The driver was not to be shaken. ‘Today is Friday. First night of ALICE AT THE PALACE — I should know, this is my second journey up here tonight.’

  ‘Yes,’ insisted Cameron. ‘First night. Tonight is Thursday night.’

  ‘No, guv’nor, hate to correct you there. The show was scheduled to open yesterday night, Thursday night, but it had to be cancelled because they couldn’t get the scenery out of the Electric Alhambra. All the automatic gubbins shut down and they ‘ad to spend all last night, Thursday night, and ‘alf of today taking it down manually. This new-fangled elect-rima-trickly ain’t what it’s cracked up to be at times, is it?’

  ‘Tonight is Friday?’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Friday? Tonight?’

  ‘That’s what I’m telling you, yes.

  A terrible chill enshrouded Cameron Bell. He had not been unconscious for a couple of hours, but for an evening, a night and a day. More than twenty-four hours he had lain on the floor of his study.

  ‘Make haste!’ cried Cameron Bell. ‘Make haste to the door now, please.’

  The Crystal Palace diamond-hung upon the hill at Sydenham. Lit to a dazzling brilliance by one hundred thousand neon tubes. The wireless transmission of electricity making the impossible possible.

  The driver drew up before the gorgeous building. Cameron Bell climbed down from the hansom and took himself around to the cab side that faced the rolling lawns. Took out his money and paid off his fare.

  ‘Do you still have your blunderbuss?’ enquired Mr Cameron Bell.

  ‘No, guy, proved to be a tad unwieldy in a skirmish. Bought meself one of these little blighters.’ The driver produced a bulbous object of brass and purple glass. ‘Pocket ray gun,’ he said. ‘It’s called the Educator — puts folk right when they’s wrong.

  ‘I wish to buy it from you,’ said Mr Bell. ‘But I have no money, only this antique gold watch.’ He handed this last cherished item to the driver.

  A covetous expression passed over the driver’s face. ‘Well,’ said he, ‘I’m taking the poor end of the bargain, but lookin’ at the state of yous, you’re ‘aving a right rough time. ‘Ere, take the little blighter, and if you see Johnny Frenchman you can shoot ‘im up the backside, eh?’

  Cameron Bell took the ray gun. ‘I am so sorry,’ said he.

  ‘Nothing to apologise for, guv’nor.’ The driver pocketed Cameron’s watch, grinning as he did so.

  ‘I regret that there is.’ Cameron Bell turned the ray gun on the driver. ‘This is a highway robbery,’ he said. ‘Please hand over your money and return to me my watch.’

  After the sulking driver had driven away at speed, Cameron Bell approached the palace of glass. He was aware of how rough he must look, his clothes as bespoiled as a beggar’s. But he was also aware that this was the Music Hall, where all were welcome, as long as they could furnish the price of admission.

  The grand entrance hall, a beautiful gallery, was made even more gorgeous by the pleasing arrangement of elegant naked statuary. Each carved from silica mined from Earth’s moon. The moon now named Victoria. Sounds of singing echoed fr
om the great auditorium beyond. Of the Travelling Formbys crooning the plaintive feline ballad ‘Your Pussy Still Reminds Me of My Grandma’s Ginger Beard’.

  The box office, a glittering booth modelled after the style of the Taj Mahal, was manned by a swarthy son of the Empire, mightily bearded and sporting a jewel-speckled turban.

  ‘The best seat you have in the house,’ said Cameron Bell. The gentleman of swarthiness viewed the potential purchaser of the best seat in the house as he might a pigeon poo that had fallen onto his diamond-spattered headwear.

  ‘Most amusing,’ said he.

  ‘Judge me not upon these rags,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I am a man of substance. I was attacked and brutalised.’

  ‘You have the voice of a gentleman,’ said the swarthily complexioned seller of tickets, shaking his turbaned head. ‘But regrettably, at the Crystal Palace we enforce a strict code of dress in the exclusive boxes. Sir has no hat, no tie, no gloves, no tailcoat — no—’ And then, ‘No!’ he said, much louder.

  Cameron pointed the ray gun at the turbaned head. He flung all the money he had taken from the driver across the ticket counter.

  ‘I am a desperate man,’ he said. ‘Hand me the ticket and keep the change, or I will shoot you dead.’

  The son of Empire stared at Cameron Bell. ‘Sir has given me sufficient money not only to purchase the best seat in the house, but also to rent the appropriate apparel. Take your ticket and this—’ he displayed a special voucher to Cameron Bell, ‘—to the booth yonder and you will be fitted out at no further expense.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cameron Bell, taking both ticket and voucher. ‘And I apologise for this,’ and he returned his ray gun to his trouser pocket.

  It was the work of moments. The measurings up, the selection of clothes. Discarding the old and slipping on the new. ‘Burn those,’ said Cameron Bell to the fitter as he transferred his pocket watch, the last remaining symbol of his former life, to the silver-fabricked waistcoat of the smart dress suit.

  ‘You must return the suit at the end of the performance, ‘said the fitter.

  Cameron toyed with his ray gun.

  ‘I will close up the booth and depart for home now,’ said the fitter. ‘I do hope that sir enjoys the performance. I am told that Alice Lovell—’ And he made a lewd expression.

  Mr Bell raised high the ray gun and struck the fitter down.

  The best seat in the house — the best remaining seat — was on the second tier above the one reserved for royalty. Cameron Bell squinted at his ticket, but he knew the way well enough. He had attended concerts here before, classical concerts. He had seen Mrs Norman Nerruda, the greatest violinist of the day, perform Paganini.

  Cameron crossed to the ornate staircase that led to the boxes, gained the first landing and then the second. Edged along the corridor alone with brooding thoughts. Applause reached him. He drew out his watch, squinted once more at the dial. It was well after eleven, the show was running late. But he had not missed Alice. She would be on next. The very top of the bill.

  Cameron was approaching the door to his box when he heard the laughter. Not the laughter of the crowd, but of a single fellow, a high and horrible laughter, this. It brought Mr Bell to a halt. The private detective leaned towards the do or of a box and pressed his ear against it. Further laughter and other sounds reached him. Curious sounds that he could not identify. But that laughter— Cameron Bell drew out his ray gun once more. Held it high in his right hand and with his left gently turned the handle of the door. It clicked, the door opened slightly, Cameron put his shoulder to it and pushed.

  The curtains were drawn upon the box, shielding it from the gaze of those filling the auditorium. The lights were dim but of what was to be seen there could be no doubt at all.

  The eyes of Cameron Bell fell upon a naked man, engaged in filthy congress with what looked to be two Limehouse prostitutes and a plucked but lively chicken. The naked fellow looked up from his dirty doings. ‘Why, Bell,’ he said. ‘Would you care to join in? There is always room for one more.

  Cameron Bell entered the box, closing the door behind him. ‘Well,’ he said, displaying his ray gun. ‘We meet again, Mr Crowley.’

  29

  ery nice,’ said Aleister Crowley, viewing Cameron’s ray gun. ‘Is that one of those new surgical appliances whose healthy vibrations alleviate female hysteria?’

  ‘A little ray gun called the Educator,’ said Mr Bell. ‘It has educated several this evening. It will now teach you its cruellest lesson, I am thinking.’

  ‘Hold hard.’ Mr Crowley rolled aside an enormous East end slosh pot. ‘No need for any violence. I merely took what you promised me. A little early, perhaps, but I damaged none of your precious things. You do write the most personal accounts in your diary, do you not?’

  Cameron Bell ignored this unpleasant remark. ‘My world is in ruination,’ he said. ‘Everything that I held dear is gone. And you are partially to blame for this. Had you not stolen the ring, the creature that destroyed my house searching for it might have spared at least some of my belongings.’

  ‘This is all very sad,’ said Mr Crowley, pulling up his long johns as he did so. ‘Your library and your curiosa, too?’

  ‘All gone,’ said Mr Bell. ‘My house as well, destroyed by fire.’

  ‘You may lodge with me,’ said the Great Beast, beaming hugely. ‘I inhabit superior rooms at the Savoy now. ‘Tis the balance of equipoise, I suppose. My fortunes have risen, as yours have fallen.’

  ‘Return the ring to me,’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘That I regret I cannot do,’ said Mr Aleister Crowley.

  ‘Then before I shoot you dead and take it from your cold and lifeless finger, tell me this. If it was not you consumed by fire in your lodgings, then who?’

  ‘Just a whore,’ said the Logos of the Aeon. ‘She had the gall to doubt my powers as a magician. I wore the Ring of Moses. She warmed to my skills most colourfully.’ Crowley’s voice took on a sinister and insinuating tone, his eyes fixed once again upon a spot to the rear of Cameron’s head. ‘But my dear Bell,’ said he, ‘you believed me to be dead. How touching. Or not, as the case may be. For I saw no notification of my death in the obituary column of The Times newspaper. No words of regret, penned by yourself, for the loss of England’s greatest poet and holy guru. No eulogy, no—’

  ‘Cease,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘The ring, or I shoot you where you stand. And the whores, too, for an encore. Found dead in your underpants in such unexalted company. I will be happy to write that up for The Times. Does the chicken have a name?’

  ‘My dear Bell—’

  ‘The ring and now.’

  ‘But you do not understand its power. Or how to wield its power.’ The Beast of the Apocalypse raised his left hand and displayed the Ring of Moses on his finger. ‘By the power—’ he began.

  But, ‘No!’ cried Mr Bell and he shot Mr Crowley in the foot.

  The ray gun made no sound at all and nor indeed did Mr Crowley. With his mouth wide open and eyes somewhat crossed, he fainted and fell in a heap. The slosh pots opened their mouths to scream, but the detective waggled a cautionary finger.

  ‘Ladies, leave,’ he said. ‘And do take the chicken with you.’

  And making haste and donning clothes, the ladies took their leave. In company of fowl.

  Mr Bell approached the fallen mystic, knelt, removed the Ring of Moses from his hand, slipped it onto his own finger. The holy guru stirred and mumbled. Cameron Bell put the ray gun to his temple— ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ came the voice of Tony Spaloney (the King of the Old Baloney). ‘Tonight for your delirious delectation—’ the crowd made cheerings ‘—the lovely lady whose feathered frolics gain a standing ovation from all the gentlemen. She’s here, she’s dear and her birds are rather queer. The beautiful Alice Lovell and her Acrobatic Kiwis.’

  Aleister Crowley made groaning sounds.

  Cameron Bell clunked him hard upon the head.

  Then eased the curtains
open a crack and peered into the splendid auditorium.

  It was a sight that had hitherto never failed to inspire Mr Cameron Bell. Seating for ten thousand folk beneath a spreading canopy of glass. To either side the tiers of exclusive boxes rose, enclosed by cast-iron trelliswork, a confusion of intricate scrollings and traceries. Everywhere lit to perfection by modern electric.

  The stage itself resembled the exposed interior of some grossly magnified Bedouin tent. Precious linens, cloths of gold framed it to a nicety. Above, the masks of Comedy and Tragedy were picked out in silver upon an enamelled entablature, richly smothered all about by luscious velvets that tumbled above and below.

  There upon that stage stood Alice Lovell. And she had never looked more lovely in her life. She wore tonight a ringmaster’s coat in silver brocade and a tiny matching top hat. A brass corset with copper filigree and mock rose-petal-work clenched her slender waist. Bright blue bloomers, sleek white stockings and high-heeled patent button-boots completed the prettiest of pictures.

  The crowd erupted into near-frantic cheerings; gentlemen cast their hats into the air. The clockwork orchestra whirred and clicked and cranked out that ever popular Music Hall standard:

  TREACLE SPONGE BASTARD FOR ME

  And as Alice put the kiwis through their acrobatic routines, the crowd sang along with the orchestra, as would a mighty choir.

  And this is what they sang:

  Oh, treacle sponge bastard for me, please.

  I’ll have a bite of that now.

  I don’t want carrots and cheese, please,

  I don’t want slices of cow.

  I don’t want doughnuts or doorsteps of bread.

  I don’t want cabbages, big as my head.