The Mechanical Messiah (8 page)

‘What charming antimacassars,’ observed Cameron Bell, gesturing towards the embroidered items which graced the chairs and settees.

‘Breakfast?’ asked the Beast of Revelation.

‘Not for me, thank you.’ Cameron Bell removed his brown bowler hat and hung it on a peg amongst a most curious collection of headwear. Things of a magical nature, he supposed. ‘I have already eaten,’ he continued. ‘At the London Hospital. I had to drop off a certain something to my good friend Sir Frederick Treves. Before it, how shall I put this,
went off’

Cameron Bell was of course alluding to the hurty-finger of Harry Hamilton, but Aleister Crowley did not know this, and Cameron Bell did not intend to enlighten him.

‘So,’ said Crowley. ‘I perceive that you are having no luck with your latest case.

Cameron Bell sat down upon a settee. ‘Your perception does not enter into it,’ said he. ‘I observed this morning’s
Times
newspaper upon your side table there, its pages thoroughly thumbed. I have already read it myself It offers a vivid account of the tragic event that took place last night at the Electric Alhambra. It names Commander Case as investigating officer. You are aware of my relationship with Commander Case. But then you know well enough that I am
always
on a case.

Aleister Crowley smiled. ‘I was expecting you,’ he said. ‘I perceived
that.’

‘I glanced up at your window as I crossed the street,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I saw you skulking behind the net curtains. I note the pile of unpaid bills upon the side table next to the newspaper. You are expecting the imminent arrival of the bailiffs, I perceive.’

‘Basic stuff,’ said Crowley. ‘But you
are
here and you are not a man who makes too many social visits. If you are here regarding that twenty guineas I borrowed from you back at Trinity, then—’

‘Not that,’ said Cameron Bell.

‘Then as I thought, you seek to learn something from me. You suspect, and correctly, I do have to say, that
I
know something, many somethings in fact, that
you
do not.’

Cameron Bell nodded his naked head. ‘You are correct,’ said he.

Aleister Crowley flung himself into an armchair opposite Cameron Bell and fixed him with a stare. It was a practised stare, Crowley’s eyes focusing upon a point somewhere to the rear of Cameron’s head. On first encountering the Beast, folk were generally most perturbed by this stare, as it seemed as if the mystic was looking right through them. Cameron Bell would have none of it, though.

‘Let us take a morning pipe,’ said Aleister Crowley. Producing from the pocket of his quilted red velvet smoking jacket (he wore also a matching smoking cap to cover his balding pate) an opium pipe and a rather large bag of opium.

‘Somewhat early in the day for me,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘But do not let me stop you.

‘No one stops
me.’
Aleister Crowley took to the filling of his pipe. ‘And it is not so early for me. I have not slept for three nights. I am engaged in a complex magical ritual.’

A series of thumps occurred at this time, coming from an adjoining room. The Inner Sanctum perhaps, where magical rituals were performed? Or the bedchamber?

Muffled cries were added to the thumping.

Mr Crowley excused himself from the presence of Mr Bell and made off in the direction of these sounds.

The detective then heard a loud slap and the voice of Crowley calling out for silence. The mystic returned; the conversation continued.

‘You are not a believer in magic, are you?’ asked Aleister Crowley.

Cameron Bell gave shakings of his head. ‘I am more a man of science, I suppose.’

‘The two are interlinked in more ways than you might imagine.’ Aleister Crowley lit his pipe, drew in lungfuls of smoke.

‘I would not scorn any man’s belief,’ said the private detective. ‘But I deal in fact, and not belief’

Aleister Crowley laughed a wicked laugh. ‘Folderol,’ said he. ‘You are a man of inspiration. Of intuition. These things cannot be quantified or brought to scientific measurement. These things are aspects of magic.’

Cameron Bell made a thoughtful face. He wasn’t sure about that.

‘Once you have experienced the power of real magic—’ the mystic focused his eyes once more to the rear of Cameron’s head ‘—there is no going back. And there is no question as to its reality.’

‘The young lady you have bound and gagged in your bedroom is what, then?’ Cameron asked. ‘A sorcerer’s apprentice? An acolyte?’

‘No, she’s a whore,’ replied Crowley. ‘And I perceive that you are already out of your depth in this conversation and so seek to make light of my words and change the subject.’

Cameron Bell nodded thoughtfully. There was some truth to
that.

‘And magic
is
a science,’ continued the Beast. ‘It has to be performed with precise exactitude. It is formulaic, it responds to the laws of cause and effect. A mistake is not rewarded by failure, it is rewarded by a disastrous consequence.’ Crowley drew deeply once more upon the stem of his opium pipe. ‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘I know these things.
I
am a magician.’

‘And one of increasing reputation.’ Cameron Bell fanned away at the opium smoke Crowley was pointedly blowing in his direction. ‘I hear that the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn is now under your leadership.’

‘Buffoons to a man of them,’ quoth Mr Crowley. ‘That second-rate rhymester Yeats.
[5]
That clown Mathers. Do you know what he once told me after nothing but a single pint of laudanum? “The Sun is not a star,” he said. “It is a lens that focuses the brilliance of God onto the Earth.” Priceless, don’t you think?’

‘Priceless,’ the private detective agreed. ‘Might I open a window?’ he continued.

‘No,’ said Crowley. ‘They are all nailed shut.’

‘A glass of water, then?’

‘I have absinthe.’ The mystic smiled as he spoke.

Cameron Bell shook his head politely. ‘Again somewhat early for me,’ said he.

‘So,’ said Aleister Crowley. Leaning back in his chair and making all-inclusive gestures with his pipe-free hand. ‘Let us continue with the discourse. Let me explain to you exactly what magic is and what exactly it does. And when I have explained these matters to you, you will place five guineas in my hand, kneel before me and address me as Master.’

Cameron Bell considered this to be unlikely at best.

‘I do seek enlightenment,’ he said, ‘but only in a small matter. One perhaps beneath your dignity. I think I should leave you to your Great Work.’

Cameron Bell rose slowly.

Aleister Crowley said, ‘Not one bit of it.’

Cameron Bell reseated himself.

‘You carry an item upon your person that baffles you, said Crowley. ‘I perceive.’

The private detective was prepared to concede that one to Crowley. Although it might have been nothing more than a lucky guess. Either way he wanted an answer and it would be better to get it now, if it existed, rather than attempt it a little later, when Crowley would either be stupefied by opium or fast asleep in his chair.

‘Take it out, then,’ said Crowley. ‘It is in your right-hand waistcoat pocket.’

‘Ah,’ said Cameron Bell, suddenly aware that he had been distractedly tapping at the pocket throughout the conversation. He brought the ring into the smoky light and handed it to Crowley.

The Beast of Revelation perused it on his palm. And Cameron Bell observed a most intense expression momentarily cloud the young man’s features. It was an expression that could justly be described as ‘covetous.

‘Humph,’ went Crowley. ‘A trinket, a gewgaw.

‘As I suspected,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Hand it back, if you will.’

‘It has a certain garish charm,’ said Crowley. ‘I have a young nephew it might amuse. How much do you want for it?’

‘I was hoping you might give me a valuation.’

‘Perhaps five shillings,’ said Aleister Crowley. ‘I have a ten-shilling note, if you have change.’

‘Return the ring,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I will waste no more of your valuable time.’

‘A pound, then,’ said Crowley. ‘Two pounds, three. Five pounds, then. Guineas rather than pounds.’

‘You would appear to be bidding against yourself,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I suspect that you have imbibed too freely of your pipe. I feel certain that this gewgaw, as you describe it, could not possibly be worth, how much did you say?’

‘Six
guineas,’ Crowley suggested. ‘Seven if you will.’

‘Seven guineas?’
said Cameron Bell. ‘I would be stealing your money. But I will tell you what. I have a close friend, a Yiddisher jeweller at Hatton Garden. I will have him appraise the ring. It might well prove to your advantage.’

‘Oh
no!’
cried Aleister Crowley, clawing his way up from his chair. ‘You must not do that.’

Cameron Bell smiled up at his host. ‘I will be back within the hour,’ he said.

‘Certainly you will
not,’
said Aleister Crowley.

‘Your magic enables you to predict the future?’

‘On this occasion absolutely yes.’ The magician now jigged from one foot to the other. After the manner of Lord Andrew Ditchfield, whom Cameron Bell had observed performing similar nervous jiggings the previous evening.

‘The ring,’ said Cameron, stretching out his hand.

‘Not as you value your life.’

‘And what of this?’

‘Should you take this ring into the Jewish quarter and display it to a jeweller there,’ said Aleister Crowley in the gravest of tones, ‘you will not return alive.’

‘Come now,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I have many friends in that neighbourhood.’

‘Friends or no,’ the mystic said, ‘they will murder you where you stand.’

eturn the ring,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘or I will shoot you dead.’

The young magician looked perplexed, then stared at his friend. Cameron Bell displayed a small but deadly looking revolver, aimed at the heart of Aleister Crowley.

‘The ring,’ he said. ‘And now.’

The mystic grudgingly parted with the ring, which Cameron returned to his waistcoast pocket.

‘And now reseat yourself and we will discuss the matter in the manner of gentlemen.’

‘With a gun held upon me?’ Aleister Crowley made the fiercest of faces.

‘And replace the poker,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘The poker that you surreptitiously took up when you rose from your chair. The one you meant to strike me down with in order to steal this ring.’

A poker dropped from the sleeve of Crowley’s red velvet smoking jacket. Crowley now made a guilty face and returned once more to his chair.

‘I will do a deal with you,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘A deal to be struck between gentlemen. You will tell me everything you know about this ring and in return I will give it to you as a present.’

‘A
present?’
The mystic’s eyes widened.

‘Once the case I am working on is satisfactorily concluded. But only if you are completely honest with me.

‘You
swear
that you will give the ring to me?’ Crowley was once more on his feet.

‘I
swear
and we can shake hands upon it.’

Cameron Bell transferred his gun to his left hand and with his right hand shook that of Aleister Crowley. It was a significant handshake. And both men were aware of its significance.

Crowley once more seated himself and stared at Cameron Bell.

‘Tell me
all,’
said the private detective.

‘It is a valuable ring.’

‘All,’
said Cameron Bell, with a sigh.

‘And you
promise
the ring will be mine?’

‘You have my word upon it. Now tell me all that you know.’

Aleister Crowley put his hands together, made steeples with his fingers and spoke. ‘It is a magician’s ring,’ he said. ‘A ring of enormous power.

‘You have several there upon your fingers,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘What is so special about this particular one?’