The Mechanical Messiah (20 page)

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 rags.

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.’

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.

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?’