The Mechanical Messiah and Other Marvels of the Modern Age

  ‘It is what You do,’ said Darwin. ‘You banish the beast.’

  ‘What is the Beast?’ asked the metal figure.

  ‘I do not know,’ said Darwin. ‘Would You like me to read some more?’

  ‘Read it all to me — Darwin, is it?’

  ‘Darwin is my name,’ said Darwin the monkey.

  ‘Then please read it all to me and then perhaps we will both understand it.’

  Darwin continued to read.

  When Cameron Bell stood once more beneath the FOR SALE sign, he had several hundred pounds in his pocket and in his personal opinion, all the details of the various cases all completely wrapped up.

  Cameron Bell knew exactly what had happened, how and why. He knew who was to blame for what and he had formulated a plan that he hoped would be foolproof and not become subject to further complications.

  He now had to meet with certain dubious underworld figures of his acquaintance and purchase from them certain items that were far from legal for him to possess and then, he felt confident, he could put all the pieces of this complex jigsaw together and see just how perfectly they fitted.

  ‘It will be my finest achievement. Crowned only by Alice Lovell’s acceptance of my proposal of marriage to her,’ said the private detective. ‘I shall then live happily ever after.’

  Cameron Bell thought about that uncut diamond. He would need to get that back from Sergeant Case. That was going to be turned into the gemstone of an engagement ring.

  read the sign above the door. In the front window diamonds dazzled. Another sign, propped up amongst so many rings and ear studs, necklaces and bracelets, broaches and jewelled pocket watches, advertised that Mr Cohen was always willing to value gems and purchase at the very fairest of prices.

  Major Tinker peered in at the window. Gazed upon the diamond hoard. Saw how tiny the diamonds looked in comparison to those he had bagged up in his pocket. And the prices? Major Tinker smiled most broadly, pushed upon the door and entered the shop.

  The doorbell pinged and Mr Cohen looked up from his countertop doings. Mr Cohen would never be mistaken for an Irish butcher. Even upon a Tuesday when there was an R in the month.

  Mr Cohen had one of those magnifying eyeglass affairs attached to his gold-rimmed spectacles, which he pushed to one side as he greeted his visitor.

  ‘Hello to you,’ said Mr Cohen. ‘A very fine day, I trust you are well and how may I help you, sir?’

  ‘I would like a valuation upon a diamond,’ said Major Tinker, approaching the counter. ‘A discreet valuation, if you understand what I mean.

  ‘I will ask you no questions and you will tell me no lies.’

  ‘Something like that,’ said the major. ‘I acquired this on my travels. It is an uncut diamond. Perhaps it might interest you.

  He dug into his pocket, rooted about in his pouch and drew out the very largest uncut diamond. This he placed with almost reverence onto the countertop.

  Mr Cohen stiffened slightly, but he was a professional. ‘On your travels,’ he said, thoughtfully.

  ‘In distant lands,’ said the major. ‘Most distant.’

  ‘Indeed. Indeed. May I touch?’

  ‘You may touch and weigh and value and then buy,’ said Major Tinker, smiling as he said these words.

  ‘Indeed, indeed, indeed.’ Mr Cohen took up the gemstone. It was approximately the size of a golf ball. And a rather large golf ball at that. Mr Cohen lowered his magnifying eyeglass affair and peered awhile at the gemstone.

  The major affected nonchalance, hummed a Music Hall tune.

  When your grey hair turns to silver won’t you change me half a quid?

  Mr Cohen glanced up at the major then peered back at the gemstone. A bead of perspiration ran down Mr Cohen’s forehead.

  Major Tinker cut to the chase and said, ‘what do you think it’s worth?’

  ‘Worth?’ Mr Cohen placed the uncut diamond before him upon the countertop. ‘Worth?’

  ‘To the nearest few thousand pounds.’

  Mr Cohen said, ‘A diamond of this size, somewhat larger than the Koh-i-noor, would be about five thousand carats. I would value such a diamond, modestly, at perhaps ten million pounds.’

  ‘Ten … million … pounds?’ Major Tinker tried very hard to retain his composure. ‘You did say ten million pounds?’ he said. ‘That really is what you said?’

  ‘For a diamond this size, yes.’

  ‘Oh joy,’ cried Major Tinker. ‘Oh such joy indeed.’

  Mr Cohen eyed him thoughtfully. ‘You, sir, are a schmuck,’ he said. ‘A thoroughly schmecking schmuck.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ said the major.

  ‘You think that a funny joke?’ Mr Cohen looked an angry fellow. ‘You come in here thinking I am some kind of schmuck? You show me this. You show me this?’

  He took the uncut diamond and held it before the major.

  ‘I will take nine million pounds for it,’ said he.

  ‘Nine million? Nine million?’ Mr Cohen closed his hand upon the uncut diamond. Squeezed it hard. There was a crumbling, crunching sound and glittering dust went tinkling to the counter.

  ‘Sugar,’ said Mr Cohen. ‘You offer me a lump of sugar?’

  ‘Sugar?’ cried Major Tinker. ‘You think to trick me, sir?’ And with that said he tore the pouch from his pocket and emptied its contents onto the countertop. ‘Sleight of hand,’ he shouted. ‘But you won’t fool me.’ He took up an uncut diamond and closed his hand upon it. Glittering crystals tumbled from his fingers.

  ‘No,’ cried Major Tinker. ‘No. My diamonds. My fortune. No.’

  Mr Cohen eyed him queerly. ‘You really did not know?’ he said to the major.

  ‘They were real. I know that they were real.’

  ‘And so it looked to me,’ said Mr Cohen. ‘And the more I wished to own it, the more it seemed to turn itself to sugar.’

  ‘No!’ cried Major Tinker. ‘No, this cannot be.’

  Mr Cohen shook his head. ‘Only once have I heard of such a thing,’ he said, ‘when a man I am told of stole from the fairy kingdom. He thought that he had stolen emeralds. But he had not. His emeralds turned to clods of earth. It is called the Glamour.’

  A broken man was Major Tinker as he left the shop of Mr Cohen.

  On his way out he passed a fellow who was going in.

  This fellow was whistling a popular Music Hall tune.

  This fellow’s name was Sergeant Case.

  53

  ameron Bell continued with his business. He purchased two large carpet bags. He visited divers places and acquired numerous items. He journeyed to the post office in Marylebone Street and sent off a number of telegrams. He had meetings in darkened alleyways and spoke with dubious fellows. Money changed hands at these meetings, illegal things went into the carpet bags.

  At fifteen minutes to five a carriage dropped him off at Scotland Yard. Cameron Bell paid the driver and removed the disguising bandages from his face.

  ‘Well,’ he said to himself ‘I am here.’

  ‘Where am I?’ asked Alice Lovell. ‘What am I doing here?’

  But she recognised just where she was. In Tunbridge Wells, beside the rabbit hole. Her kiwi birds flustered around her, even more confused than usual.

  ‘Well,’ Alice told them. ‘There is nothing for it. You must all now follow me, into the rabbit hole.’

  Down and down fell Alice, as she had done before. And after came her kiwi birds in a great big fluttering bundle going, ‘Ki-wi, ki-wi, ki-wi,’ for such is the cry of the kiwi bird when it is very confused.

  At length, Alice found herself upon the floor of a small room. At slightly more length she found herself engulfed by tumbling kiwi birds. And at further length, when some semblance of order had been restored, confronting a very large kiwi bird, who sat in a rocking chair smoking a small cigar.

  ‘Ah, there you are at last,’ said the kiwi bird. And as Alice stared at him and his small cigar, he changed before her very eyes, first into the lar
ge white rabbit and then back again.

  ‘It is you,’ said Alice. ‘And you are both.’

  ‘And you have used up valuable magic.’

  ‘I was in a room,’ Alice said. ‘And policemen attacked me with guns. I wished very hard that they would not shoot me—’

  ‘Nor your kiwi birds,’ said the kiwi-rabbit combination.

  ‘No, of course I did not want them to shoot my kiwi birds.’

  ‘And so you are here.’ The kiwi beak went puff-puff-puff upon the small cigar. ‘And you know how to use your magic.’

  ‘I just wished,’ said Alice.

  ‘Magic is mostly just wishing,’ said the kiwi/rabbit. ‘Wishing and hoping, and believing, too.’

  ‘I would like to take my kiwi birds back to New Zealand,’ said Alice. ‘London has become a horrid place and I do not want to be there any more.’

  ‘You can of course go wherever you wish.’ Puff-puff-puff went the small cigar.

  Alice said, ‘Will you please put out that cigar?’

  ‘Why?’ asked the kiwi that was the rabbit and likewise.

  ‘Because I wish you to,’ said Alice.

  And then the cigar was gone.

  ‘Oh,’ said Alice and felt her heart flutter. ‘Does that mean I can wish for anything?’

  ‘Not precisely,’ said the bird-bunny chimera. ‘If that were so, I do believe you would reduce this world to chaos in less than half an hour.’

  ‘Do not be so rude,’ said Alice, making her sulky face. ‘Or—’ And then she paused.

  ‘Or you might wish me away?’

  ‘What can I wish for?’ Alice asked.

  ‘Perhaps for a happy ending. Although that sometimes comes at a price.’

  ‘You confuse me once more,’ said Alice. ‘Why am I here? I did not wish to be here.’

  The words, ‘I am here,’ had barely left the mouth of Cameron Bell before he found himself thoroughly engulfed. Not by kiwi birds, as had Alice, but by members of the capital’s press, who, having sensed that something big might be on the go, had arrived early. They had been lying in wait all around and about, and now fell madly upon Mr Bell.

  ‘Mr Bell,’ cried one. ‘Will you be destroying any more of the nation’s monuments?’

  ‘Mr Bell,’ cried another. ‘Have you committed any more outrageous atrocities that you’d care to talk about?’

  ‘Mr Bell,’ cried yet another. ‘Why exactly have you chosen to give yourself up?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Cameron Bell, trying to force his way into the premises of Scotland Yard. ‘I will answer that one. I am surrendering to Sergeant Case. London’s greatest policeman. He tracked me down fair and square by the power of his remarkable intellect. By morning you will know absolutely everything. For now my only comment must be that I, England’s most wanted man, am surrendering myself to that exemplar of justice, Sergeant Case.’

  Within Scotland Yard, beyond the main door that barred the way to members of the press, stood Sergeant Case.

  Cameron Bell shook off a photographer who was imploring him to pose ‘with your top off and entered Scotland Yard.

  ‘Mr Bell,’ said Sergeant Case, smiling ever so sweetly. ‘Mr Bell, how wonderful to see you. And right upon time, how splendid, how splendid indeed.’

  Mr Bell smiled back at Sergeant Case. ‘Everything prepared,’ he said. Giving the heavy carpet bags a little shake by their handles. ‘Now if you will be so kind as to lead me to my cell, everything will be just perfect.’

  ‘Oh, indeed it will,’ said Sergeant Case. ‘Just perfect.’ He leaned towards Mr Bell and whispered, ‘Let’s make this look really convincing, shall we?’

  Cameron shrugged.

  Sergeant Case blew his whistle. A number of constables leapt from their hiding places, truncheons in hand, and began to belabour the private detective.

  ‘Ooh!’ cried Cameron. ‘Ooooh!’ and, ‘Ow!’

  ‘Take him down to the cells, my bonny boys!’ cried Sergeant Case. And with much jollity upon the part of the constables, several of whom had not truncheoned anybody since lunchtime, Cameron Bell was chivvied down to the cells.

  The iron door of one of these was opened.

  Cameron Bell, his bags and all, were hurled into the cell.

  The private detective fell in a painful heap. The constables departed, all a-chuckling. As Mr Bell struggled up to his knees, Sergeant Case put his head around the door.

  ‘Most convincing,’ said he.

  ‘A little too convincing for my liking,’ replied Mr Bell, feeling at his many bruised places.

  ‘Well, we had to make it look real.’

  ‘I suppose you did,’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘Because things are either real or they are not,’ said Sergeant Case.

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Mr Bell.

  ‘Although,’ Sergeant Case continued, ‘things can appear to be real at first glance and then turn out not to be real at all.’

  Cameron Bell was dusting about at himself ‘That is also the case, said he, in a distracted fashion.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sergeant Case. ‘A man might be given something that he is told — promised, in fact — to be of value. But that something turns out to be of no value whatsoever.’

  Cameron Bell glanced up at Sergeant Case. ‘Ah,’ said Mr Cameron Bell. ‘Well now indeed. I think I get the picture.’

  ‘You tricked me, sir,’ cried Sergeant Case.

  ‘Hardly too much trickery,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Five hundred pounds is a tidy sum.’

  ‘That diamond was not worth five hundred pounds. Not one single pound, in fact.’

  ‘What of this?’ asked Cameron Bell.

  ‘It turned to sugar in the shop.’

  ‘Oh dear me,’ said Mr Bell. ‘Oh my dear dead mother.’

  ‘And as such,’ continued Sergeant Case, our agreement is null and void. Cancelled. Finished.’

  ‘But, listen—’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘Oh no.’ The sergeant waggled his finger. ‘I will listen no more to you. You have lied to me once too often. Your sins, Mr Bell, have found you out. I shall claim the reward for your capture. And I shall have a happy ever after. You, however, will do Jack Ketch’s dance at the end of a rope.

  ‘But—’ went Cameron Bell.

  ‘This is the most secure cell in Scotland Yard,’ said Sergeant Case. ‘And this is the only key. Farewell, Mr Bell.’

  And having said this he slammed shut the door and turned the key in the lock.

  ‘And the key was turned

  and the seventh seal was

  opened and a star fell

  from Heaven onto the Earth.’

  Darwin the monkey ceased to read and drank from the cup of water that the colonel offered him.

  The Mechanical Messiah was still staring into space while the big toe of His left foot described patterns in the floor dust. The fingers of His right hand were tapping on His knee.

  ‘I hate to say it,’ said Darwin, ‘but I think we are wasting our time. I don’t know what you have brought to life, Colonel, but I do not think it is Heaven’s Last and Best Gift to Mankind.’

  ‘Hmph,’ hmphed the colonel. ‘Terrible disappointment. Feel rather cheated. But we can’t give up just yet.’

  ‘We have been reading to Him for hours and hours,’ said Darwin, ‘and all He does is grin foolishly. When I read chapter fourteen, verse two — “and I heard the voice of harpers harping with their harps” — I thought He was going to wet Himself.’

  The colonel hmphed once more.

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Darwin, ‘but I regret that one is forced to apply the verity and cliché to our golden friend. He is very pretty, but He is not very bright.’

  Colonel Katterfelto hung his head. ‘This was my whole life’s work,’ he said. ‘My very reason for being, as it were.’

  ‘You have lived an extraordinary life,’ said Darwin. ‘Done extraordinary things. Brave things. Noble things.’

  Colonel Katterfelto tous
led Darwin’s head. ‘I have led a lonely life,’ said he. ‘And d’you know what? Meeting you has been one of the best things in it. Your friendship means the world to me.

  ‘As yours does to me,’ said Darwin. ‘Shall we leave this beautiful fellow here to fiddle in the dust and take some pie and porter at an alehouse?’

  Colonel Katterfelto straightened up his shoulders. ‘Come on, then,’ he said to Darwin. ‘Pie and porter it is.’

  The Chancellor of the Exchequer eschewed pie and porter, dining rather upon venison haunch, broccoli spears, courgettes and sautéed potatoes. At periods he sipped red wine from a glass that had once touched the lips of Marie Antoinette. The wine had once been laid in Louis’ cellar at Versailles.

  The Chancellor of the Exchequer dined alone. In his private chambers in the Palace of Westminster. His personal valet and manservant coughed politely and announced the dessert.

  The dessert was Treacle Sponge Bastard.

  The Chancellor of the Exchequer beckoned this dish to his table with a languid though blackly gloved hand.

  Outside Big Ben struck ten of the evening clock.

  ‘Time is moving forward oh so fast,’ hissed the Chancellor. His valet trembled as he served the Bastard.

  But then—

  ‘Sir, oh, sir.’

  A menial entered the private chamber, waving a sheet of paper.

  ‘I am not to be disturbed!’ hissed the voice behind the black silk veil.

  ‘But sir, it is the news you have been waiting for.’

  ‘The news?’

  ‘The evening’s papers were delivered late.’

  ‘Make sense, you fool,’ the Chancellor hissed, ‘or I will have your head.’

  ‘The assassin,’ said the menial, his knees now knocking together. ‘The one you had the WANTED posters issued for. Cameron James Bell. He has been captured. He is under arrest. Held in a cell at Scotland Yard.’

  The Chancellor in black rose to his feet, cast aside his chair and then his table. The crystal glass shattered, the vintage wine drained away into a priceless carpet.