The Mechanical Messiah (47 page)

The Arson Attack upon the Crystal Palace

The murders of Harry ‘Hurty-Finger’ Hamilton

and Smelly Charlie Belly

The malicious wounding of Mr Aleister Crowley and the theft of his grandfather Moses Crowley’s golden ring

And divers other charges, including the

horrible incendiary attack upon

MASTER MAKEPIECE SCRIBBENS

THE BRENTFORD SNAIL BOY.

‘The Brentford Snail Boy?’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Raised by snails,’ said the pet-shop owner. ‘He topped the bill at the Electric Alhambra when it finally reopened after the tragic death of Smelly Charlie Belly. Sang his famous song —

Don’t take the shell off your racing snail

it will only make him sluggish.

Cameron Bell shrugged helplessly.

‘He went on as top of the bill,’ said the pet-shop owner.

‘Sang his famous song, then went up in a burst of flame like the other two. But his shell protected him. He was lucky. Got off with ninety per cent burns and total paralysis.’

‘I should be so lucky,’ mused Cameron Bell.

‘But what am I telling
you
for?’ asked the pet-shop owner. ‘You are Cameron James Bell and I am making a citizen’s arrest.’ And he now drew out from beneath his counter a most impressive ray gun. ‘This is the Mark Five Ferris Firestorm,’ the pet-shop owner informed the wanted criminal.

‘Put that away and don’t be so silly,’ said Alice. ‘This man is my close friend and I can vouch for him completely.’

Cameron nodded his head at this. A head that was sweating somewhat.

‘You put me in a very difficult position,’ said the pet-shop owner. ‘You are a lady and as such must be treated respectfully by a gentleman.’

Alice nodded. ‘What are you trying to say?’ she asked.

‘I am saying — and please do not take offence at this, I am one of your biggest followers, I saw all your performances at the Electric Alhambra — but the law is the law. What can I say?’

‘You can say you are sorry to Cameron,’ said Alice. ‘And then you can help me search for my kiwi birds.’

‘Not
that.’
The pet-shop owner shivered. ‘This shop will be bolted and barred before nightfall. But I am not alluding to this madman.’

‘Pardon
me?’
said Cameron Bell.

‘Rumour has it that he is a French spy,’ said the pet—shop owner. ‘But it is
you
I am talking about.’

With his free hand he brought out yet another poster of the WANTED persuasion.

Alice’s image was upon it.

EVIL KIWI GIRL

Alice read:

Formerly believed to have succumbed

in the great fire at the Crystal Palace,

recent information suggests that

she is living in a feral state

and leading a flock of

ferocious kiwi birds

on nefarious nocturnal escapades

of a murderous nature.

‘It says, “WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE”,’ said the pet-shop owner. ‘Somewhat extreme, I grant you, but the way things are at present, hardly surprising, I suppose. The poster only arrived this very morning, and
you
arrive this very afternoon. What a small world it is.’ He cocked the Mark Five Ferris Firestorm, sending that deadly crackle of electrical energy between the polished terminals. ‘I think it probably for the best if I just shoot you both now, to avoid any complications.’

He aimed his weapon at Alice.

‘Ladies first,’ said he.

ameron Bell surprised even himself with the speed of the actions he took. He threw himself across the counter, tore the ray gun from the pet-shop owner’s grasp and used the stock to batter him rather brutally in the face.

Somewhat begored about the snout, the pet-shop owner sank beneath his counter.

‘My hero,’ cried Alice, flinging her arms about Cameron Bell.

‘Thank you, Alice,’ said Cameron, savouring the moment. ‘Now, if you might find some rope, I think it would be for the best if we tied up the pet-shop owner.’

The receptionist at the Adequate had seen some sights in his time. Eccentric visitors to the Crystal Palace. Weird folk of the Music Hall — even, once, a boy who’d been raised by snails. He had never, however, seen such a queer pair of people as entered upon this evening.

The reception area of the Adequate was lit in a manner which could have been better, but could have been so much worse. The reception desk would do for now and the carpet served as best it could. The receptionist was dressed sufficiently well as to just about pass muster. He stared in awe at the two folk who were approaching.

A man and a woman, it so appeared, of some strange foreign extraction. The man was broad and bulky, with a dark brown complexion. He wore on his head a mighty turban that matched his ample flowing robes. The woman looked particularly exotic, with similarly tanned skin, a caste mark upon her forehead and a sari of red-purple velvet.

A thought flickered momentarily into the mind of the receptionist that the sari of the exotic woman was a perfect match for the curtains in the pet shop just across the road.

‘Good evening,’ said the turbaned traveller. The receptionist noted now that this extraordinary being bore across his shoulders a Mark Five Ferris Firestorm. And also that he spoke in that sing-song fashion that tends to identify a man as hailing either from India or Wales.

‘Good evening, sir,’ said the receptionist, in a manner that was neither impolite, nor otherwise. ‘And how might I help you upon this fine summer’s evening?’

‘Two rooms, said the turbaned fellow, who seemed at close quarters to exude an unusual fragrance, that of animals and bootblack. The words HIGSON’S HAMSTER FOOD could be seen in the folds of his headwear.

‘My wife and I require two rooms. I am Prince Rhia Rhama Rhoos, fearless kiwi hunter.’

‘Oh,’ went the receptionist, in a manner indicative of surprise, but not too much of it. ‘You are certainly welcome. We have a number of rooms available that measure up at least to the minimum requirements. A great number, in fact.’ And he sighed. Most sadly did he sigh.

Then he pushed an open hotel register across the counter.

The turbaned prince examined it. ‘Is no one else staying here at all?’ he asked.

‘In truth,’ said the receptionist, ‘you are the first guests in months. The kiwis, you see. Business should pick up to a moderate level once again when they are all bagged and it is safe to step out in the hours of darkness.’

The swarthy princess made a very grumpy face. But did not speak a word.

‘The two best rooms in the hotel,’ said the prince. ‘Our baggage is being sent on. Kindly lead the way.’

In a bedroom just sufficient for its purpose, Alice Lovell sat and sulked and rubbed somewhat at her face. ‘This bootblack will ruin my skin,’ she said.

‘Better that than death at the hands of some self-styled bounty hunter,’ said Mr Cameron Bell. ‘It rather suits you, too.’

‘Does it?’ said Alice. ‘But surely we cannot expect to actually get away with such a deception?’

‘The receptionist is grateful for customers,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Especially when they are fearless kiwi hunters.’

‘If you harm just one feather of my kiwi birds.’ Alice shook a delicate fist. And then she burst into tears. ‘This is all too much,’ she said between weepings. ‘My life is in ruins. What am I going to do?’

‘Tomorrow we will return to London.’ Cameron longed to put his arm about Alice’s shoulders and comfort her in a physical manner. ‘I will sort everything out.’

‘You promise?’ said Alice, turning her big moist eyes towards him.

‘I
absolutely
promise,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Now I suggest that you go to your room and get some sleep. It has been a very long day and you must be quite exhausted.’

Alice glanced about the room. It was perhaps a modicum more adequate than hers.

‘You go to the other one,’ she said. ‘I am staying here.’

There were fireworks that night at the Crystal Palace. But few folk had turned out to watch them and when their carriages rolled away there was silence and darkness in the little village of Sydenham.

Alice had washed the bootblack from her face. She sat before the window, gazing out into the night. Above, stars twinkled in a cloudless sky. Planets, too. One of them was Venus, but Alice did not know which one it was.

She yawned and stretched and let her curtain sari fall to the rugless floor. She still wore her pale blue dress with the white puffed shoulders. But it was rather grubby now and she really needed a bath. Alice reached out to draw the curtains closed.

But then she saw him.

He stood in the darkened doorway of the pet shop. A lone figure, tall, and staring up at her.

‘Oh my goodness,’ said Alice. ‘The giant kiwi bird.’

It was the same giant kiwi bird that Alice had encountered in her dream. A dream of twelve months past. The kiwi bird that had accompanied her on the imaginary trip to Venus.

The hotel’s front door was not particularly well locked, and Alice slipped quietly into the darkened street.

The kiwi bird beckoned with its beak. Then spoke.

‘About time, too,’ it said. ‘Where have you been for so long?’

‘On a voyage to Venus and back,’ said Alice. ‘As you told me that I would.’

‘And I wonder, did you bring back any magic?’ said the kiwi bird.

‘I did not bring back anything other than myself.’

‘Then you
did
bring back the magic.’ The kiwi bird smiled with his beak. ‘You passed the test and the magic is now inside you.

‘I do not understand,’ said Alice. ‘You are confusing me.’

‘You went on a journey to the most magical planet in the Solar System. Others went with you, but you were the only one who did not steal something away from that world called Magonia. You passed the test. The magic is now in you.

‘I do not feel very magical,’ said Alice. ‘Very tired and rather hungry, though. They do not serve an evening meal at the Adequate.’

‘Horrid things have happened while you have been away, said the kiwi bird, bobbing its head in time to its words. ‘A horrid beast stalks the streets. Your kiwis are blamed for its horrors.

‘Where are my birds?’ asked Alice.

‘I will bring them to you presently. But you must listen to me. Even now the horrid beast gains terrible power. You will play your part in defeating him. The ecclesiastics of Venus have schooled you for this, although you do not remember.’

‘You frighten me,’ said Alice. ‘I want my kiwi birds back and I want nothing to do with any horrid beast.’

The horrid beast did not look particularly horrid upon this warm summer’s night. But then there was not much of him to be seen. He wore his long black cloak and his tall black hat and sported a black silk veil. He had indeed taken particularly horrid woundings at the beaks of Alice’s kiwi birds on the night of the Crystal Palace fire, and beneath the black silk veil were terrible scars. He sat alone in the rear of an electrically powered Black Maria. One that lacked for crests upon its night-dark flanks.

The electric Maria purred between the guard posts that had been set up at the head of the Strand and passed into Trafalgar Square. Tall neon tubes, powered by the wireless transmission of electricity, had been set up all over the square to light the wrecked spaceship. Soldiers stood on watch, mostly chatting and sharing cigarettes.

They stiffened to attention as the electric Maria drew up and the figure in black stepped from it.

‘Where is your commanding officer?’ The voice hissed like a serpent’s and quite put the wind up the soldier boys.