The Mechanical Messiah (28 page)

‘And that is what you have?’ he said at length.

‘I believe my own life to be in danger,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I believe this sinister figure will draw the conclusion that
I
have the Ring of Moses. He stole the possessions of Harry Hamilton believing the ring to be amongst them. It did not occur to him that Harry would carry the ring on his person.’

‘Splendid,’ said Commander Case. ‘Absolutely splendid. What sterling work you have dome, Mr Bell. Murdered prossies in the East End.’

‘Not prossies. Virgins. Required for a magical ritual.’

‘Oh yes. Let us not forget the magic. A magic ring, is it not? And assassins from Venus out to off a Music Hall star who isn’t a man at all but a Venusian in disguise? Well, it has the lot really, does it not? A penny dreadful if ever there was one. Or one of that Johnny Frenchman Verne’s flights of fancy.’

‘Perhaps I am not making myself clear,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I require police protection. And if this evil creature is not brought to book, it is my belief that he will destroy us all.’

‘No no no.’ The commander did violent shakings of the head. ‘It is full of holes. What, for instance, of Smelly Charlie Belly? Why was he killed? Another Venusian, was he? Are all our Music Hall performers off-worlders in disguise?’

‘I have some loose ends to tie up,’ said Cameron Bell.

‘Out!’ the commander ordered. ‘Out of my office and out of Scotland Yard. I have theories of my own. Far less fanciful than yours. Dogged police work will pay off this time, you mark my words.’

‘A single constable,’ pleaded Cameron Bell, ‘to stand guard outside my home. It only occurred to me on the way over here as to just how much danger I am in. I am not a man to beg, but alone I am not a match for this evil one.’

‘Evil one,
even better,’ crowed Commander Case. ‘The very Devil himself, I have no doubt. Find yourself a priest who makes house calls, Bell, and waste no more of my time.’

And with that said, Mr Bell was ushered from both the office and the building and stood by his hired horse feeling very glum.

The horse let free with a sound like tearing rags, but this time it elicited no comment or interest from the detective, who climbed aboard the trap and drove the foetid creature back to its owner.

It was nearly seven o’clock now and Cameron knew that he would have to make considerable haste if he wanted to reach the Crystal Palace in time to watch Alice Lovell perform. It did not matter to him about the other acts and he felt that, as he knew what he knew to be basically correct, he did not believe that she was in any danger. Although there did seem to be a lot of possible alternatives. And there were times, and this was one of them, where Cameron Bell found cause to doubt his logic and intuition. But for now he only thought of Alice. He would bathe and dress and hail a cab and probably be there by nine.

Cameron reached his door and took out his key and then felt once more that sickening feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. The front door was open and he had not left it so.

Cameron Bell drew his pistol, checked it and pushed open the front door. Devastation awaited. The hall, its fixtures, fittings, furnishings and whatnots had been torn into shreds. Thoroughly destroyed.

Cameron edged forwards, gun at the ready. He had never seen such absolute destruction. Treasured items were scarcely recognisable. Paper was ripped from the walls.

His study— Cameron pushed open the door. Saw the horror within.

Then gasped as something took him, spun him around. He was aware of a dark, brooding figure, a noxious hideous odour breathed upon him, a hand gripped his throat and then he knew no more.

r Bell awoke to utter darkness. He clutched his throat and vomited, his eyes rolled in his head. Struggling to his feet, he lurched about. Finding a wall before him, he leaned his weight upon it. Cameron patted about at himself for his case of lucifers. He could feel that his pockets had been torn from his jacket, but his watch chain remained dangling from a waistcoat buttonhole and on it his watch and silver match case. A feeling of dread all but consuming him now, he edged along the wall. Found a gas mantle, turned it up, fumbled with the match case and struck a lucifer.

And revealed a world gone mad.

His beautiful study had been completely destroyed. Books and treasures brought to devastation. Down, it seemed, to the smallest item, ravaged, decimated, torn asunder.

Cameron Bell sank back against the wall, now clutching at his heart. It was gone. All gone. Everything that mattered to him. That brought memories. His childhood bits and bobs and those of his father before him. Items gathered by his forebears upon the Grand Tour. Irreplaceable photographs in silk-bound albums. Glass that his mother had loved. And that he had loved, too.

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?’