The Mechanical Messiah (51 page)

‘And I will take credit for bringing both of
these
to justice?’

‘Yes,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘And within twenty-four hours. That is all the time I need. Twenty-four hours and all will be done, I promise you. But if I am not allowed to go about my business freely, within a week from now the British Empire will be at war and thousands will be dead.’

‘Truly?’ asked the sergeant.

‘Truly,’ said the detective.

‘Then the Lord save us all,’ said Sergeant Case. ‘The good Lord save us all.’

‘Lord save us all,’ said Colonel Katterfelto, falling to his knees upon the cold chapel floor. Darwin the monkey took several paces back and hid himself behind a pillar.

The sunlight shone through the stained-glass windows, playing rainbows over the silent figure’s beautiful brazen body.

Colonel Katterfelto caught his breath.

There came a sound, as of a distant choir.

As of angelic voices raised in song.

As of a time, not now, but long ago.

And growing, did this sound appear

To fill the chapel, thrill the ear.

A chorus of Angelic Host,

Of Father, Son and Holy Ghost,

Of love and light, and light and breath

And being in a golden golden glow.

Colonel Katterfelto wrung his ageing hands.

Darwin the monkey trembled.

The Mechanical Messiah opened its eyes.

ameron Bell had not been entirely honest with Sergeant Case. It was not just the matter of Cameron’s overvaluation of the uncut diamond. It was also the method by which the private detective meant to bring one of the criminals to justice. It was not a method that Sergeant Case would have approved of and so Cameron Bell had not mentioned it.

He had, however, agreed to officially give himself up to Sergeant Case at five o’clock this very evening. At Scotland Yard. This would give Cameron Bell time to make certain important preparations and Sergeant Case sufficient time to rally Fleet Street’s finest journalists to Scotland Yard for a press conference at five fifteen. Which meant that the six o’clock evening papers could splash Cameron’s capture all over their front pages.

If all goes well,
thought Cameron Bell,
I really will be able to bring this entire dire business to an end before tomorrow morning. Assuming nothing untoward occurs to complicate matters.

The doorman of the Ritz had a piece of paper in his gloved hand. He was discussing what was printed upon it with the driver of a hansom cab that stood waiting before the marvellous hotel.

‘Says she’s a princess,’ said the doorman to the driver. ‘And true as true she’s all dressed up in velvet with the swarthy looks of a Jo any Foreigner.’

The driver nodded. As yet, though, he had nothing to say.

‘But it’s all those kiwi birds,’ continued the doorman. ‘There must be two dozen of them. I had to herd them into the lift.’

The driver still had nothing to say.

‘So what I’m thinking,’ the doorman went on, ‘is what if she isn’t an Indian princess at all? What if she’s the EVIL KIWI GIRL on this here poster?’ He waggled the poster. ‘In disguise, you see.

The driver continued with his silence.

‘There’s only one way to be sure,’ said the doorman. ‘I am going to call Scotland Yard. Have them send down one of their sergeants. Then if she is the EVIL KIWI GIRL I will get the reward and give up door-keeping and retire to the Sussex Downs to keep bees instead. What do you think?’

The driver looked towards the doorman. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t listening. I was thinking about a fare what I just dropped at Scotland Yard. I know as ‘ow ‘e looked familiar and stone me if I don’t now remember just who the blighter is.

‘Speak,’ said Colonel Katterfelto, down upon his knees.

‘Speak to us, O Lord. Let the world know who you are.’

The Mechanical Messiah stood motionless, but for a gentle blinking of its eyes. These eyes were of the palest blue, crafted from turquoise and glass. They slowly moved from side to side then focused on the kneeling figure of Colonel Katterfelto. The fingers of the brass hands twitched, closed upon the metal palms, unclosed. The shoulders flexed, the head moved on its stately neck. The mouth opened slightly exposing more of the pure white ivory teeth.

And then the being spoke.

The Book of Revelation speaks of angels with the voices of trumpets and so was this voice. Gently though the words were spoken, and pure the tone that came not out of any human throat. The trumpet horns of Heaven given speech.

‘Who am I?’ asked the being formed of brass. The Mechanical Messiah stared blankly into space.

Darwin crept from his hiding place and approached the brazen figure. Colonel Katterfelto was climbing to his feet.

‘He doesn’t know,’ the colonel puffed, his knee joints clicking noisily. ‘He doesn’t know who He is.’

Darwin looked up at the beautiful creation. ‘Perhaps you have to tell Him,’ said the monkey.

‘Tell Him, you think?’ The colonel peered at the face, which shone as polished gold. The expression was completely blank.

‘Who am I?’ the figure asked once more.

The colonel looked down towards Darwin.

‘You have to tell Him,’ said the monkey. ‘You have brought life to Him. The
Magoniam
has energised Him. But you must explain to Him
what
He is.’

‘Hmph.’ The colonel cleared his throat. ‘Think I know what you’re saying. I have brought Him life. But He must bring the spirit into Himself.’

‘His soul,’ said Darwin. ‘His holy soul. And then He will truly be what He should be.’

The sunlight fell through the stained-glass windows onto the man-made God. A God of brass that shone as holy gold.

‘My God!’ cried Constable Gates, punching the crime engine. ‘You useless heap of brass.’

A cleaning lady in a straw hat who was passing by asked, ‘Have you tried turning it off and then on again?’

A bell began to ring.

‘At least
that
is working,’ said Constable Gates, tugging the brand-new nice brass Mark One Ferris Telephonicon towards him and bringing the handset to his ear.

‘Scotland Yard,’ he said.

Words were issued to him via the earpiece.

‘The EVIL KIWI GIRL?’ he continued. ‘Are you sure?’

More words entered his ear.

Constable Gates was an ambitious young policeman and not one to turn a blind eye to a fast-track promotion when one was staring him right in the face. Or in this case, right in the ear. Thoughts now entered the constable’s head, although where they entered from, even he could not say.

‘Could you just hold on for a moment?’ said Constable Gates. ‘While I have a word with my superior officer.’ And then he did what future generations would learn to do. He put his hand over the mouthpiece of the Telephonicon, and in this case counted up to fifty.

‘Hello?’ he said, removing his hand. ‘My sergeant says that I am to deal with this personally. I will gather up a few constables and we will be over to the Ritz directly. Please keep a close watch upon the hotel room of the EVIL KIWI GIRL until I get there. Do you understand?’

‘Do you understand what I am saying?’ asked the colonel.

‘I understand you,’ said the figure of brass.

‘But you do not know who you are?’

‘I know not.’

‘Darwin.’ The colonel glanced down at his simian friend.

‘Darwin, go and look for a Bible. This is a chapel, there must be one somewhere. Perhaps if I read that to Him.’

The bandaged detective read the sign.

FOR SALE

it said, in letters big and red.

Cameron Bell paid off the driver of
another
hansom cab and looked up at the façade of the Electric Alhambra. It did not sparkle quite as much as it used to. Pigeons roosted amongst the gold-plated letters above. The capital E had fallen from
Electric.

‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Cameron Bell, trying one of the entrance doors and finding that it opened. The foyer was no longer lit by its thousands of vacuum bulbs. A few candles served to light upon a cleaning lady in a straw hat (this the sister of the cleaning lady at Scotland Yard, as it happened, proving once more the smallness of the world). This lady pushed a broom about with no particular interest, but smiled upon Mr Bell as he approached.

‘Are you a buyer?’ she asked.

‘A buyer?’ asked Cameron Bell.

‘Come to buy the Alhambra, of course.

‘Well, actually, yes,’ the detective lied. ‘It has all gone a bit downhill.’

‘After poor Makepiece Scribbens got all roasted in his shell, the owner decided to put it up for sale. He still holds his private meetings here, of course.’

‘At midnight?’ asked the private detective.

‘So you know of them.’

‘Shall we say I suspected something of the sort? Is Lord Andrew in his office?’

‘Where else would he be?’ asked the cleaning lady. ‘He thought he was moving up in the world, that he would manage the Music Hall at the Crystal Palace. But on the opening night there it burned down and he got sent back here. Months went by while Commander Case mucked about, then the theatre reopened with Master Makepiece Scribbens topping the bill.’

‘And the rest is history,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘But thank you for sharing
that
with me. Does the lift still work?’

The cleaning lady shook her hatted head.

‘Then I will take the stairs.’

Cameron Bell had a fine sweat on by the time he tapped upon the door of Lord Andrew’s lofty suite of rooms.

After some time the door swung partially open and a bleary-eyed face peered out at Cameron Bell.

‘Who are you?’ asked Lord Andrew Ditchfield. ‘I am your salvation,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.

The being who might be the world’s salvation sat upon the stack of box bits under the stained-glass window. He stared into nothingness and His jaw moved up and down.

The colonel sat on the floor before Him and so did Darwin the monkey. Darwin was holding a battered Bible, which he passed to the colonel.

‘Read to Him about Noah,’ said Darwin. ‘I
do
love all of those animals.’

‘I think we will start with the New Testament,’ said the colonel. ‘And I am thinking the Book of Revelation.’

Cameron Bell could offer no revelations. He entered Lord Andrew’s suite of rooms and was appalled by the mess. Empty bottles and discarded cartons littered the floor. Cameron stopped and picked up one of the cartons. He peered at it and said, ‘A pot of noodles.’

‘What do you want?’ asked Lord Andrew Ditchfield. ‘And why are you all bandaged up like that? Another letter didn’t fall off the front of the building and hit you on the head, did it?’

Cameron shook his bandaged head. And then took off the bandages.

‘Oh no!’ screamed Lord Andrew Ditchfield. ‘It is you. The murderer. The assassin. The incendiary. Destroyer of my life.’

Cameron Bell turned a deaf ear to this.

Twice in one day was really too much.

‘I am your salvation,’ he said once again.

Lord Andrew Ditchfield had taken to flapping his hands and spinning around in small circles. Cameron Bell drew him smartly to a halt and gave him a smack on the face.

‘You have come to murder me, too.’ His lordship all but fainted away.

‘I have come to save the day,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Well, to save
tomorrow,
shall we say. How would you feel about reopening the Electric Alhambra tomorrow?’

‘You are mad! Quite mad!’ Lord Andrew took once more to spinning. Cameron slapped him again.