The Mechanical Messiah (12 page)

‘But as to the hurty-finger?’ asked the most private of detectives. ‘Might I ask what conclusions you have reached?’

‘You might ask, my dear chap, but I have little to offer you in return.’

‘My interests lie in chemical residues,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘As of some accelerant, perhaps, that might have set off the combustion.’

‘I found no immediate evidence of such. But it is the finger itself that presents us with an enigma.’

Cameron Bell asked, ‘How so might this be?’

‘Well.’ Sir Frederick Treves drummed the fingers of the severed arm onto the dissecting table. ‘You are certain that it is
actually
a finger?’

‘The famous hurty-finger, yes.

‘As you are probably aware,’ said Sir Frederick, ‘it was myself who performed the first post-mortem examination of a dead Martian. The first
Alien Autopsy,
as the papers put it. What I learned of the Martian anatomy I wrote up in a lecture that I presented to the Royal Society. Martian and Mankind have few similarities. The beings upon this planet that are the closest to Martian would be certain sea creatures. The shark, certain cephalopods.’

Cameron Bell nodded thoughtfully. ‘Where is this leading to?’ he so enquired.

‘The finger is not Martian,’ said Sir Frederick Treves.

Cameron Bell made laughter. ‘I never thought that it was.

‘But neither is it human,’ said Sir Frederick.

‘Ah now then,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Ah now well indeed.’

‘Examining the cell structure of this “finger”, it would appear to exhibit more in common with the vegetable kingdom than the animal. It is almost like a branch, or sapling. The nail resembles a fingernail, but beneath the microscope appears more to be bud-like. This is not some prank that Merrick has put you up to, by any chance?’

‘I swear to you, no,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘And please don’t do
that
with the severed arm.’

‘My apologies,’ said the surgeon. ‘I have been working late and have not seen my wife for several days.’

‘Might I ask you a question, then?’

‘Regarding my wife?’

‘Regarding the finger. Do you suppose it could possibly be that of a Venusian?’

‘Interesting question.’ Sir Frederick laid the severed arm aside. ‘I would love to examine the carcass of one of those strange fellows. Certain parts of their anatomy would be of surpassing interest.’

‘But do you believe it possible?’

‘I, like yourself, am a man who deals in facts. I rarely speculate. I test each hypothesis through intense study and strenuous experimentation. Present me with a dead Venusian and I will present my findings. But let me say this to you. I have seen Harry Hamilton perform upon the stage. To all intents and purposes he certainly looked human. We know of four distinct species in our Solar System: our own, the Martian, the Jovian and the Venusian. I have examined specimens of the first three and we can rule them out. If the finger is not of a Venusian, then I am at a loss to suggest just what it might be. But do not quote me on this.’

‘Quite so.

‘And I might ask that you leave the finger with me for the present — I would like to conduct further tests. I have it preserved in formaldehyde; it will be safe for now.

‘As you wish,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I have no other lines of investigation to follow. Mr Hamilton becomes more mysterious by the moment. This will prove to be a challenging case.

Mr Merrick returned with a nice cup of tea held in his good hand. Cameron Bell noted that he had something of a smirk upon the mouth parts of his face.

‘Your tea,’ said the Elephant Man.

‘I regret that I am in something of a hurry,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘but I will return in a cab at seven—thirty and take you to the Music Hall.’

Joseph Merrick bowed his bulbous head. Then placed the cup of steaming tea in the hand of Sir Frederick Treves.

The surgeon general gave the tea a sniff.

‘
Cascara,’
he said. ‘A powerful laxative. Why do you do these things, Joseph? The nice gentleman is taking you to the Music Hall.’

Having mildly admonished the Elephant Man, and thanked Sir Frederick Treves for his assistance, the nice gentleman left the London Hospital and hailed a hansom cab.

‘Carlton Road,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Number ninety-five. ‘The cabbie climbed down from his perch, aided Mr Bell into the cab proper, closed the waist-high door upon him and returned to his perch. ‘How would you like it, guv’nor?’ he called down to his fare through the little hatch just above Cameron’s head.

‘How would I like what, exactly?’ replied Mr Bell.

‘The journey, guv’nor. Would you care for it all nice and sedate? Or should I whip the ‘orse into a frenzy and go orf like a batsman out of ‘ell?’

‘The former,’ replied Cameron Bell. ‘It is but a five— minute journey at best.’

‘I can make it more like ‘alf an ‘our.’

‘I’ll only pay a shilling either way.

‘Right, as you like then, guy’ nor.’ The cabbie stirred his horse into a gentle trot, then sought to engage his fare in conversation.

‘Lovely weather we’re ‘aving,’ he said.

‘Delightful,’ said Cameron Bell. His mind upon other matters.

‘We had a mild winter.’

Cameron Bell just nodded his head.

‘But things’ll liven up when we’ve summer all year round.’

‘I suppose they will,’ mused Cameron Bell. Then, ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

The cabbie called down to him from on high. ‘The End of the World,’ quoth he.

Cameron Bell said, ‘Perhaps, on second thoughts, you might drive just a bit faster.’

‘Don’t want to spoil our conversation,’ called the cabbie. “S’not often I get into a the—o-ma—logical discussion.’

Cameron Bell said nothing.

‘It’s technology to blame,’ called the cabbie, ‘techno-flipping-nonology. All this elec-ti-ma-tricity buzzing about in the hatmosphere.’

‘Right,’ said Cameron Bell.

‘You know what they ‘ave now?’ asked the cabbie, but he did not wait for a reply. ‘A flyin’ platform, so they ‘ave. More of that Johnny Yugoslavian Tesla’s fiddling with the elements. They say it’s the size of Piccadilly Circus and can ‘ave upwards of an ‘undred toffs parading about on top of it as it sails through the sky like a flipping artichoke.’

‘Artichoke?’ asked Cameron Bell.

‘Airship,’ said the cabbie. ‘Don’t mind my pro-nunce-ific-cation. I’ve been up ‘alf the night drinkin’ gin. I can ‘ardly speak, let alone steer this flipping ‘andcuff.’

‘Hansom,’ said Cameron Bell.

‘Well, I do take care of meself,’ said the cabbie.

There was a brief pause there, possibly for applause, before the cabbie continued, ‘Them’s messing with the natural laws,’ he continued. ‘Wireless trans-mis-if-ic-cation of electrickery through the sky. If man was meant to be fluttering around in the ‘eavens, the Good Lord would ‘ave given im wings on his back like the flipping angel that Zeus sent to care for Castor and Polly Parrot.’

‘Pollux,’ said Cameron. ‘Pollux.’

‘Language, please, guv’nor, this is a public thoroughfare.’

‘I think I’ll get out and walk from here,’ said Cameron Bell.

And so he walked the rest of the way. Stopping only at a headwear emporium to purchase a straw boater. Having left his top hat at Lord Andrew Ditchfield’s and his bowler at Aleister Crowley’s. He had left them there for reasons of his own, but a gentlemen should never go hatless.

Carlton Road wore fine and pink-bricked houses to its either side. They were capped by London slate, with chimneys tall that offered smoke no matter whatever the weather.

Cameron Bell stopped before number ninety-five. A movement at a window caught his eye. A slim hand withdrew from sight a sign that read

‘The room of the late Harry Hamilton,’ said Cameron Bell, to no one but himself ‘Having gleaned his address from Lord Andrew Ditchfield last night, I sent a telegram first thing this morning to the proprietress of this establishment, to inform her that a gentleman in an official capacity would be arriving today to remove the late Mr Hamilton’s goods and chattels. And I am now here to present myself as this very gentleman.’

Having concluded this discourse to an imaginary audience, Mr Cameron Bell stepped up to the front door and tap-tap-tapped with the knocker.

Shortly thereafter the slim and delicate form of Lucy Gladfield opened up the door.

‘No hawkers and no circulars, sir,’ she said.

‘Neither hawker nor distributor of circulars, I, fair lady,’ said the gallant Mr Bell. ‘I sent a telegram earlier regarding the worldly goods of Mr Harry Hamilton.’

Lucy Gladfield made a puzzled face. Cameron Bell found fascination in her curious hairdo.

‘Did you receive the telegram?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes I did.’ The helter-skelter bobbed about, and the lady looked more puzzled.

‘Well, I have come to pick up the goods,’ said Cameron Bell.

‘But you already have.’

‘Please pardon me, fair lady, but I do not understand the meaning of your words.’

‘Well, not you. But your representative. A tall, very striking gentleman. He said he was authorised to collect the effects of the late Mr Harry Hamilton.’

Cameron Bell now made a puzzled face.

‘Why, there.’ The lady pointed with a pale slim hand. ‘Getting into the four-wheeled brougham over there. Mr Hamilton’s portmanteau is strapped upon the top, as you see.

‘I do,’ said Cameron Bell. And he stared aghast as he watched the tall and indeed striking individual enter the brougham and rap his malacca cane against the roof to hasten up the driver. And call out, ‘As fast as you can,’ in a curious high-pitched voice.

‘Hold hard there!’ cried Cameron Bell, making his way through passing passers-by. The driver of the brougham cracked his whip above the horses, which reared and took off as fast as might be.

‘Damn!’ cried Mr Bell. Then viewing an approaching hansom hailed it down.

Without further ado he climbed swiftly aboard and called up to the cabbie. ‘Follow that brougham!’ he cried.

The cabbie grinned down at him through the little hatchway.

‘Well, ain’t it a small world,’ he said. ‘Do you want as I should follow on all nice and sedate? Or should I whip the ‘orse into a frenzy and go off like a batsman out of ‘ell?’

s requested, the cabbie took off like a batsman out of ‘ell.

The brougham took a sudden left and knocked a passing cleric from his penny-farthing bicycle.

‘Damnable icon-o-mo-clast!’ cried the cabbie, stirring up his horse to even greater frenzy. Not that they were making any particular headway, or indeed speed, as the streets were plentifully crowded with hansoms and horse buses, pedestrian passers-by, new electric ‘wheelers’, bawling newsboys, beggars and those picking up the Pure.

But as that was the way in which such chases were conducted, Cameron Bell leaned back in his seat and reached for his silver cigar case.

‘No smoking in the cab, sir,’ the cabbie called down to him.