‘Thou’ll not be staying for pudding?’ The princess made a kittenish expression. ‘Topped off with a Martian coffee.’

  ‘A Martian coffee?’ said Mr Cameron Bell.

  ‘It is like an Irish coffee, only red.’

  Mr Bell laughed politely.

  ‘Why dost thou laugh?’ asked the princess. ‘Dost thou mock the royal person?’

  ‘Oh, on the contrary,’ said Mr Bell. ‘I laugh at myself for being so ill-informed as to know nothing of a Martian coffee.’

  ‘Two days,’ said Princess Pamela.

  ‘Two days?’ queried Mr Bell. ‘What two days might these be?’

  ‘The two days it will take thee to solve the case of the purloined reliquary and return it to me, before my floating palace sets sail.’ The princess smiled a greasy smile and drew a lacy cuff across her mouth. ‘In the meanwhile, in fact from early this morning, t’spaceport is closed to thee. And a bounty be upon thy baldy bonce, if thou comest not back with my treasure.’

  ‘You will have no need for that,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘If the perpetrator is on this planet, I will find him, have no fear, sweet lady.’

  ‘Fear?’ the princess chuckled. Then, ‘Belmont!’ she cried out in a bellowing tone. ‘I am firm but fair,’ she told Mr Bell, whilst she waited impatiently. ‘Thou playest fair with me and I’ll play fair with thee. Return my treasure and thee’ll get a big reward. Fail and it’ll be the worse for thee.’

  Away beyond the confusion of furniture, the tiny bearded man poked his tiny bearded face between the curtains.

  ‘At your service, ma’am,’ he called in his tinkly little voice.

  ‘Take Bell to t’chapel and let him search for clues. Then send him on his way and ‘appen back ‘ere to serve my pudding.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, yes.’ The manikin beckoned Mr Bell, who backed from the room, a-bowing as he did so.

  Belmont scuttled forward and Cameron Bell fell in behind. ‘How far away is the chapel?’ he asked the scuttling figure ahead.

  ‘We’re not going to the chapel,’ said Belmont, casting his beard scarf-like over his left shoulder. ‘We’re going to the machine room.

  ‘And why might we be going there?’ asked Mr Cameron Bell.

  ‘You want to solve the case, don’t you?’

  The scuttler did not turn, but Mr Bell still nodded.

  ‘And so do we all. She’s a regular horror since the burglary. She had my brother poached last week and munched him up for supper.

  ‘Oh my dear dead mother,’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘So we’ll all be happier when she gets her blessed reliquary back.’

  ‘And the solution lies in the machine room?’ said Mr Bell.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Belmont. ‘I could have sorted all this out for the princess, but oh no, she has to listen to that harpy Dharkstorrm. “Bring in the famous detective, Cameron Bell, let him take on the case.’

  ‘Is this the chapel?’ asked the detective. ‘This looks very much to be a chapel door.’

  ‘It is,’ said Belmont, turning and hunching up his shoulders. ‘But it is the machine room you want — believe me on this, you surely must.’

  ‘I have no cause to doubt you,’ said Mr Bell. ‘But as we are at the chapel, what harm would there be in letting me take a swift look around before we visit the machine room and all is revealed?’ Mr Bell did grinnings down towards the tiny man.

  ‘Oh, as you wish — it’s your rump she’ll have served on a silver platter.’

  ‘Key?’ asked Mr Bell.

  ‘Isn’t locked any more,’ said Belmont. ‘No point now the reliquary is gone.’

  Mr Bell made a thoughtful face. ‘Who held the key at the time of the robbery?’ he asked.

  ‘My brother,’ said Belmont. ‘The Keeper of the Keys. Those keys never left his hands. He swore to that throughout the long, slow poaching.’

  ‘How many other entrances to the chapel?’ asked Mr Bell.

  ‘None, and no windows.’

  ‘Then please wait here while I examine the interior of the chapel alone.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Belmont folded his arms in a huff and made a grumpy face. ‘But before you do, let me warn you — it isn’t nice in there.’

  ‘Would you care to elaborate?’ asked Mr Bell.

  ‘The murals on the wall are horrid,’ said Belmont. ‘The princess should have them painted over.

  ‘Horrid in what way?’ asked Mr Bell.

  ‘Violent. Nasty,’ said Belmont. ‘You see, many now believe that the war the Martians waged upon Earth was a holy war. A crusade. The Martians believed themselves to be God’s Chosen People and the folk of Earth idolaters and fallen beings, little more than animals, fit for nothing better than enslavement or death.’

  Mr Bell nodded at this. The Martian invasion had been notable for its brutality if nothing more.

  ‘After the Martians were all put to death,’ Belmont continued, ‘scholars from Earth gained access to the libraries of Mars. They deciphered the Martian sacred scripts and were surprised to find that the Martian Creation stories closely mirror our own. And they discovered that the prophets of old were not born upon Earth but had descended from the sky. They had come from Mars. Moses, it transpired, was a Martian and even—’ Belmont whispered ‘—Jesus, too.’

  ‘That is surely blasphemous,’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘For now, perhaps,’ said Belmont, ‘but not perhaps to future generations. Who can say what they might choose to believe? They might even incline towards a theory that God did not create the universe, but rather that the universe created itself out of nothing, in a great big bang or suchlike.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘for such a theory would be laughable. But it is all food for thought. So please wait here while I look into the chapel.’

  And with that said he left Mr Belmont, entered the chapel and closed its door behind him.

  The smell of the chapel surprised Mr Bell, for it was the smell of any chapel on Earth, and the interior decoration was most familiar, too: Gothic arches, pews of pine, though broad these pews to accommodate the Martians’ beastly bottoms. The depictions of the saints, however, came as a body blow, as did the sight of the tentacled horror that adorned the cross above the altar.

  And as for the frescoes, they were frightful throughout. Hideous depictions of Earth people toasting in Hell whilst Martians swanned about on the Heavenly plains.

  ‘Ghastly,’ was Mr Bell’s opinion, ‘but hardly out of place in this appalling palace.’ And without saying more he turned his attention to the job in hand and did what no man of the Earth did better.

  Mr Bell removed from his Gladstone bag several items of scientific interest, one of which at least had been the invention of Ernest Rutherford. Mr Bell approached the altar and conducted certain experiments upon the area where the reliquary, its absence accurately denoted by a bright and dustless ring, had rested for many long years.

  ‘Removed twelve days ago,’ said Mr Bell, consulting dials and employing a slide-rule. ‘So what of this thief, whom locked doors trouble not?’

  Mr Bell peeped here and there, stroked at his chin and scratched upon his head. He dropped to his knees and examined the floor. Climbed upon pews and scrutinised the ceiling.

  And then he began to pace about in ever-decreasing circles. ‘No,’ he said as on he paced. ‘No, this cannot be.’

  He turned and paced the other way, a-no-ing as he did so.

  And when finally his ever-decreasing circles had reduced to only himself, slowly rotating and shaking his head, he drew to a halt and sighed a mighty sigh.

  He then repacked his Gladstone, placed his straw boater onto his head, tucked his sword-stick under his arm, took up his Gladstone, cast one final all-encompassing look around and promptly left the chapel.

  ‘Done, are you, then?’ asked Belmont. ‘Seen all you needed to see?’

  ‘I have indeed,’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘And identified the thief?’
r />
  Cameron Bell made noddings of the head.

  ‘You have?’ piped Belmont. ‘You have not!’

  ‘I have,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘But I must confess to puzzlement.’

  Belmont twisted fingers into his beard.

  ‘You see,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘there is no doubt in my mind as to who stole the reliquary. The evidence is all there, most strikingly apparent, almost as if the criminal was aware that I would take the case and so left, for reasons all of his own, the clues necessary for me to identify him.’

  Belmont’s beard was all in a-tangle. ‘So who did the crime?’ he asked. ‘And do you know the villain’s name?’

  ‘I do,’ said the great detective. ‘The villain’s name is well known to me. As such it might be, for it is my own.

  ‘The name of the villain is Cameron Bell. It would appear that I stole the reliquary.’

  22

  ou did it?’ Belmont laughed. ‘That is priceless,’ he said.

  ‘It is ludicrous,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘but it would appear to be true. I have recently published a monograph regarding the unique configuration of fingerprints.’

  ‘What did you call it?’ Belmont was doubled up with mirth.

  ‘I called it A Monograph Regarding the Unique Configuration of Fingerprints.’

  ‘Excellent title.’ Belmont was now upon the flagstoned floor, giggling like a mad thing and thrashing his legs in the air.

  ‘No two men have identical fingerprints,’ Mr Bell continued, unabashed. ‘And I have studied this intently. I know my own as well as … well … I know the back of my own hand.’

  ‘Please stop.’ Belmont raised a feeble hand. ‘You’ll be the death of me.’

  ‘This is no laughing matter!’ Mr Bell did stampings of the feet.

  ‘Oh, it is … it really is.’ Belmont rolled about upon the floor.

  A single swing of the foot is all it would take, thought Cameron Bell, to send this laughing gnome upon his way.

  ‘Have you ever seen me before?’ he asked the rolling laughster.

  ‘Seen you before, what of this?’ Belmont wiped tears from his ancient eyes.

  ‘I have never been here before, have I? You have never seen me in this palace before now?’

  ‘Absolutely never.’ Belmont rocked gently, clutching his stomach.

  ‘I am at a loss to explain this.’ Cameron Bell shook his head.

  ‘Oh …‘ went Belmont. ‘Oh …’

  ‘What?’ asked Cameron Bell.

  ‘Well, have you ever seen me before?’

  Cameron Bell took to shaking his head once more.

  ‘Then how do you know it’s me?’ Belmont creased in further convulsions of mirth.

  Mr Bell swung his foot and kicked him down the corridor.

  At length, order was restored and both made free with their apologies. Mr Bell’s sounded the more convincing of the two, but even he did not really mean it.

  ‘So,’ he said with a heartfelt sigh, ‘it appears I must investigate myself’

  Belmont chewed upon his lip and twisted his fingers into his long white beard. ‘The machine room should settle it,’ he said.

  Mr Bell tapped his sword-stick upon the flagstones. ‘What is this machine room all about?’ was the question that he asked.

  ‘I am the Keeper of the Royal Engines,’ said Belmont, pulling back his shoulders and thrusting out his pigeon chest. ‘It is my duty to—’

  ‘Clean and maintain them,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘And you have asked repeatedly for an assistant to aid you in your duties but so far one has been denied you.’

  ‘Uncanny,’ said Belmont. ‘How did you know all that?’

  Cameron Bell shrugged. ‘Observation,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, well, all true. The engines are old — they belonged to the Martians. I am the only one who knows how they work.’

  ‘And you believe that through the use of one of these machines we might divine the truth of all this?’

  ‘Precisely.’ The little man made a weary expression. ‘I said as much to the princess, but as I told you, she wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘I am listening,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Lead me to this machine room of yours and we shall see what we shall see.’

  ‘We shall,’ said the bearded Belmont.

  The machine room was long and low and offered up that smell of oil and brass polish that would forever bring joy to generations of young and old men alike.

  Mr Bell sniffed approvingly and viewed the machine room. It was indeed a room of many engines, all highly polished and highly complicated, a veritable panorama of brazen tubing, cogs and gubbins and buffed-up brass stopcockery.

  ‘A most impressive collection.’ Mr Bell made a smiling face and sniffed once more at the air.

  ‘You wouldn’t want the job of polishing it all,’ said Belmont bitterly.

  ‘But what do they do?’ asked Cameron Bell, whose knowledge of engineering was scanty at best.

  ‘All manner of things.’ Belmont beckoned to be followed and pointed as he walked. ‘This one transmutes gold into base metal,’ he said. ‘That one creates unnecessary friction. That one there can bring chaos out of order. And that one—’ he pointed to one quite near at hand ‘—that one makes apples out of cider.’

  ‘They all do the reverse of what they were intended to do,’ said the enlightened Mr Bell.

  ‘On the contrary — they all do precisely what they were intended to do. It is more difficult to untie a knot than it is to tie one, would you not agree?’

  ‘I would,’ said Cameron Bell, reaching out to touch a particularly pleasing contrivance.

  ‘And don’t touch anything!’ cried Belmont, spinning around. ‘That one unpicks people as a grandma might unpick knitting.’

  Cameron Bell withdrew his hand. ‘Regarding knots,’ said he.

  ‘Like I said, it’s harder to undo a knot than to tie one, so imagine how skilful would be the inventor who constructed a de-printing press?’

  ‘De-printing?’ queried Mr Bell.

  ‘It removes the printed words from paper then reduces the paper to its component parts. Years of work went into that one, I am sure.

  ‘But to what end?’ asked Mr Bell.

  ‘To make all well with the world,’ said Belmont in a most exasperated tone. ‘Have you never heard anyone say “things were so much better in the good old days”?’

  ‘I say it myself every once in a while,’ admitted Mr Cameron Bell.

  ‘So these engines were designed to make things the way they were before they got all messed about with and spoiled.’

  ‘I understand the logic,’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘Good,’ said Belmont. ‘These engines, if set running twenty-four hours of every day, would eventually return the worlds to the state of paradise that existed at the dawn of Creation. Now do you see their cleverness and purpose?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mr Bell. ‘Yes, indeed I do.’ And his head went bob-bob-bob and then he asked, ‘Who invented these marvels of retrograde machinery?’

  ‘Ah,’ went Belmont and took to tapping his nose. ‘A Martian invented these engines and you know his name well enough.’

  ‘It was not me, I suppose?’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘What a foolish thing to say,’ said Mr Belmont. ‘Let us pretend that you never said it and go on with our conversation.’

  ‘So who did invent these machines?’

  ‘A Martian by the name of Leonardo da Vinci.’

  Cameron Bell gave thought to this. ‘That should have been followed by a drum roll and a symbol clash,’ was his observation.

  ‘Were you dropped at birth?’ asked Mr Belmont.

  ‘Which is the machine that would have solved the case without the need for my involvement?’ enquired Mr Bell.

  ‘This fellow here,’ cried Belmont, making expansive gestures before an exceedingly large and very wonderful engine. A symphony in brass, it was, with cogs a-twinkle all about and pistons tall and piston
s short and lettered key plates poking out.

  ‘Behold,’ said Belmont. ‘The Patent Post-Cogitative Prognosticator.’

  The detective beheld this. ‘Post-Cogitative?’ said he. ‘Am I to assume that this contraption predicts the past?’

  ‘With unerring accuracy. Behold the lettered key plates.’

  Mr Bell had already beheld the lettered key plates, but he was prepared to behold them anew if necessary.

  ‘There are key plates with letters and others with spaces,’ said Belmont. ‘Although I cannot see them from down here, I’ve been up there polishing them often enough.’

  ‘All right,’ said Mr Bell. ‘What is it that I must do?’

  ‘Ask it a question,’ said Belmont. ‘Tap the letters on the keys and spell out your question. Ask it who stole the reliquary.’

  ‘But I know who stole it,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Somehow it was me.

  ‘Listen,’ said Belmont, ‘I am sorry that I laughed so much in the corridor.’

  ‘And I’m sorry that I kicked you along it,’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘Quite so. But the reason I did is this. You may be a detective, and a good one, too.’

  ‘Some say the best,’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘And you, no doubt, would be one of those. But you are on Mars now and things are different here. Look at me — did you ever see anything like me on planet Earth?’

  ‘I once saw General Tom Thumb,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I had dinner at Windsor Castle, with the Queen and Mr Phineas Barnum.’

  ‘You’re not paying attention. Did you steal the reliquary, or did you not?’

  ‘The evidence-’ said Mr Bell.

  ‘Forget the evidence. Did you steal it?’

  ‘Not to my certain knowledge,’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘Then whatever your evidence tells you, it must be wrong. The Patent Post-Cogitative Prognosticator, however, is never wrong. It was built to be right. It is always right.’

  ‘So if I ask it who stole the reliquary, it will furnish me with the correct answer?’

  ‘That is what I have been trying to tell you all along.’ Belmont cast his hands aloft. ‘People just don’t listen to you when you are little. They boss you about and don’t take any notice of you. They do not care about your feelings.’