The Hunchback Assignments (16 page)

With each step Modo clutched his chest harder; his broken rib was on fire. He staggered, latched onto one of the lampposts, and rested against it. He wiped his forehead and discovered clumps of hair stuck in his sweat. Bumps were appearing on his face, but he had no way to hide them. He hoped he wouldn’t frighten Mr. Socrates’ servants.

He pulled up his scarf and staggered to the stone wall surrounding the house. Lights were on, even at this late hour. He pushed the iron gate open.

“Halt!” a voice commanded.

Two large men in greatcoats ran at him out of the
darkness, one pointing a pistol. They stopped a good five yards back, unsure of what, or whom, they were dealing with. Modo kept his face turned from the lamplight.

“What’s your business?” the one with the pistol asked.

“To see Mr. Socrates. I’m in his employ.”

“Oh?” The pistol remained. “And we’re supposed to take your word for that?”

“It’s the truth.” Modo coughed.

“We weren’t told to expect guests,” the other man said, walking up to him. “Let’s get a good look at you.” He grabbed Modo’s shoulder, yanking him into the light. They were hardened men with scarred faces, but they both recoiled in disgust.

“My God!” gasped the one holding Modo’s shoulder. “What hit you?”

“Nothing!” Modo was tempted to break the man’s nose. “Nothing.”

“Release him!” Modo recognized the voice and soon Tharpa was striding down the path. “Return to your posts.”

“We don’t take orders from you, wallah.”

Tharpa stepped up, broke the man’s grip on Modo with a subtle flick of his wrist. The man groaned and pulled back his arm as though stung. “Next time listen to the wallah,” Tharpa said to the men as he guided Modo toward Towerhouse.

“Thank you,” Modo whispered.

“They see the color of my face and they make judgments. We are not so different, you and I.”

Modo managed a little grin.

Tharpa patted his shoulder. “You do not look your best, young sahib.”

“I’m very tired.”

“Well, you have one more task tonight, I’m sorry to say.” Tharpa led him into the house and closed the door. He brought a mask out from under a scarf on the hat shelf. “You will want to wear this.” Modo took the mask and put it on. With a firm hand on Modo’s back, Tharpa brought him into the dining room, whispering, “All the sahibs are here tonight.”

Mr. Socrates was leaning over a map on the long teak table. Down either side of it sat five well turned out older men, buttons gleaming, cravats perfectly pressed. At the far end was a dark-haired woman in an emerald-green dress. Smoke stung Modo’s eyes and he stifled a cough. Three of the men cupped pipes, while the woman’s spidery fingers held a long retractable cigarette holder. The table was set with wine goblets, grapes, dinner rolls, and sweet biscuits, and littered with papers and maps. The gentlemen’s top hats sat along a shelf behind them.

Mr. Socrates looked up, his face drawn with exhaustion. “Ah, my agent has returned. Step up. My associates would like to hear what you’ve discovered.”

They were an intimidating lot, intelligent eyes set into faces that revealed their years and, Modo guessed, worldly experience. Since Mr. Socrates had only referred to him as “his agent,” Modo realized his master didn’t want them to know too much about him. “I—I went to the Tower.” Modo scratched nervously at the side of his neck. “Wh-Who are these people, Mr. Socrates?”

“My interests are their interests. You may speak freely.”

“Oh. I see.” Modo cleared his throat. He felt naked
under their penetrating gazes. “I entered the Tower of London as you requested, sir, and interviewed Mr. Oscar Featherstone.”

“What details did he provide?”

“He claims he didn’t have control of himself when he committed the murder. He’d been given a tincture and it … it divided his mind in two. Miss Hakkandottir seems to have planted instructions in that second part of his … his self, if that makes any sense, sir.”

“Sense?” a gentleman echoed. He was hunched over, and with his short gray hair and glasses, he reminded Modo of an unblinking owl. He was maybe forty years old, his vest was brown, and, with a shock, Modo noticed that his right hand was withered, only half the size of his left. Modo couldn’t help staring at it, until a pang of shame hit him. This was, after all, how others always reacted to his own disfigurement and he hated it. “This suggests personality separation,” the man continued. “Did he say who created this tincture?”

Modo glanced at Mr. Socrates, who said, “Please answer Mr. Gibbons’s query.”

“It was Dr. Cornelius Hyde.”

“Hyde?” Mr. Gibbons repeated. Modo felt his eyes drawn to the man’s withered hand again. He looked away. “But he disappeared over ten years ago. He was quite mad.”

“I met him once.” The woman took a long draw from her cigarette holder. “Very adept at clockwork and obsessed with hybridity.” She let out a smoke ring that distracted Modo. He’d never seen such a thing. “Did Mr. Featherstone mention any children?” she asked.

“Uh … no.”

“Could Hyde really have created a tincture capable of altering the essence of a man’s personality?” Mr. Gibbons asked. Modo presumed this question wasn’t for him.

“Perhaps,” said another gentleman with dark hair. His well-trimmed, angular beard looked odd upon his wrinkled face. He was obviously English, but he wore dark blue Oriental clothing, which Modo thought might be silk. “Dire news that he’s involved with the likes of Fuhr and Hakkandottir. One wonders whom they serve; how organized they are.”

“Well, sir, I can tell you this much,” Modo said, “they’re called the Clockwork Guild.”

Everyone in the room was staring intensely at him now. He felt a little proud to have been able to surprise them with what was clearly important information. He was certain he saw a bit of a smile on Mr. Socrates’ face.

“Kindly explain how you came to discover this,” Mr. Socrates asked.

“Featherstone said he had a rhyme stuck in his head: ‘The symbols must fall, the Clockwork Guild sees all.’ And that symbol on the paper has a clock in it.”

“Ah, that is indeed good information,” Mr. Socrates said. Modo took a deep breath, flushed with his success.

“So this Clockwork Guild is several moves ahead of us,” the woman said. “I want to know how these feral children fit into the puzzle.”

“They must be test subjects,” Mr. Gibbons said. He scratched his forehead with his good hand. “The real threat at the moment is this gang of young gentlemen
killers. And we don’t know how many cells of these murderous youth exist. May I remind you that we still have no idea what has happened to young Prince Albert. He could be—”

“Let’s conjecture after the interview with my agent is finished,” Mr. Socrates interrupted. “What else did you learn?”

“I now know the names of all the members of the Young Londoners Exploratory Society.” Modo listed them. By the nods exchanged between his interrogators, he could tell that many of the names were familiar to them.

Mr. Socrates set down his glass of wine. “Well, better late than never. Any other details you feel should be passed along?”

“Only that Oscar Featherstone is innocent.”

“Well, half of him is,” the woman said. A few of the men chuckled. Modo wanted to rush to Oscar’s defense, to press his point about innocence, but thought better of it.

“You’re dismissed,” Mr. Socrates said to Modo. “Thank you for your services.”

Modo nodded and backed to the door, then plodded down the hall to the stairs. A gleeful thought penetrated his exhaustion: I’ve now met the movers and shakers. They were likely titled, lords and a lady, maybe even a duke or two. And all of them worked secretly to protect Britannia.

“I’ll bring you food,” Tharpa said from behind him.

“Please, don’t trouble yourself.”

“I choose to. Your dressings need changing, also.” He disappeared into the kitchen.

Modo used the banister to pull himself up the stairs to the third floor. Inside the wash closet he took off his mask.
His ugliness never failed to disconcert him, like an unexpected and unwelcome guest. He ran a wet cloth over his pockmarked forehead, enjoying the comfort of the cool water. He cleaned his hands, happy to find that the glass cuts were not too deep. Hearing a noise in the hall, he put his mask back on.

When he opened the door, Mr. Gibbons was standing right outside. “Ah, I beg your pardon, young sir. The other wash closet was in use.”

“You are welcome to this one.” Modo tried to step by him, but Mr. Gibbons didn’t budge. He rubbed his withered hand. Modo tried not to stare at it again, but his eyes had a will of their own. He allowed himself a brief glance, enough to notice the man’s dry, cracked skin.

“What is your name?” Mr. Gibbons asked.

“Modo.” The moment he said it, Modo cursed himself. He wasn’t certain if Mr. Socrates wanted the associates to know his name.

“Ah, I see. Mr. Socrates hasn’t mentioned you before. Why do you hide your face?”

“To keep my identity secret.”

“Ah, even from Mr. Socrates?”

“No.”

“He always has the most interesting agents. To get into the Tower of London is no small feat. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Modo edged away from Gibbons’s overly large eyes. They didn’t seem to even blink.

“Has he told you much about our association?”

“Very little. Nothing really.”

“He is such a secret-monger, but it has served him well. I suppose you don’t know that two more attacks have been made on senior politicians?”

“They have?”

Mr. Gibbons nodded. “That’s why we’re meeting. Earlier this evening, George Glyn, the parliamentary secretary to the treasurer, was murdered by his son, Henry. With a saber, no less.” It dawned on Modo that if he’d remembered all the names of the members of the Young Londoners Exploratory Society sooner, then this man would not have died. The thought sickened him.

“There was also a failed attack on William Yarrow.” Mr. Gibbons paused, as though expecting a reaction. Modo said nothing. “He is the postmaster general. Very odd target; not usually considered a powerful position. Perhaps they were angry about slow mail delivery.” Gibbons chuckled, but even as he did so, he continued to stare, as though trying to look through Modo’s mask.

“You have a curious name, Modo. Why did your parents choose it?”

“Mr. Socrates named me.”

Surprise and delight flashed across Mr. Gibbons’s face, and Modo swore silently. He shouldn’t be letting information like that slip out. “He named you? Ah, he has known you a long time then, Modo. In Latin your name means
formed
, did you know that?”

“Of course.” He had studied the meaning of the Latin word, and wondered why Mr. Socrates had chosen it as his name.

“Formed by what? By whom?” Mr. Gibbons asked. Again Modo chose to say nothing.

“Well, I sense you are anxious to retire, my friend. You’ve had a long night. It has been a pleasure to meet you.” He stepped aside and allowed Modo to pass. “Thank you for sharing your discoveries with us.”

In his room, Modo collapsed on the bed. Minutes later he heard footsteps on the stairs and the door squeak open. Tharpa entered with a plate of roast mutton and stewed carrots. Modo greedily took the plate and, while Tharpa gently changed the dressing on his left arm, Modo wolfed the food down one-handed.

When done, Modo lay back on his pillow again and closed his eyes. As Tharpa shut the door behind him, he said something that Modo didn’t understand. He assumed it was a Hindoo word. He hoped that it meant
sleep well.

A
voice was calling for him, but Oppie couldn’t open his eyes. He wanted to sleep for a fortnight. A dull ache was starting to bother him, along with the voice. He tried to move his lips to call for his mum, but they were frozen. Then, he thought he heard his father speaking.

“Boy? Can you hear me?” The voice was louder now. “Please wake up.” Oppie opened his eyelids just a sliver and blinked. He was in a stone cavern, gas lamps blazing full flame all around him. He couldn’t move, as he’d been tied down to something.

“Boy! Boy!”

Oppie slowly turned his head. His neck muscles were stiff and sore. Someone was lying near him, but Oppie’s gaze was drawn to a glint right next to his eye: A three-inch-long bolt jutted out of his shoulder! His pulse quickened and he let out a little moan, feeling like he might
throw up. Had there been anything in his stomach, he surely would have.

“It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

Oppie looked over at the man who had spoken and recognized him immediately. Prince Albert. He had been strapped to a narrow table only inches away. And he, too, had a bolt embedded in his shoulder. “We’re a fine pair of wretches,” the prince whispered. “They have done something appallingly wrong to us. For the love of God, bolts in both our shoulders.”

Shoulders? Oppie thought. With everything he could muster, he turned his head to see the horrible truth. “Who dith dis?” he slurred.

“Dr. Hyde.”

“Yer a printh!” Oppie said. “Printh Albert, my lord.”

“Yes, yes,” Prince Albert replied. “I … I need your help. They’ve been giving me a … a drink that seems to be affecting my mind. I must escape. Can you move your hand?”

Oppie tried. “A little, my lord.”

“Can you reach these straps?”

Oppie stretched out his hand, but fell short.

“I’m sorry.”

“What is your name, boy?”

“Oppie.”

“Don’t give up, Oppie. I know it’s hard.”

Oppie wriggled and stretched until he felt a belt.

“Yes, that’s it. Pull.”

He was able to lift the tongue of the strap enough to loosen it.

“Good work. The queen will pin a medal on you.”

This encouragement gave Oppie his second wind and he loosened another strap. Soon Prince Albert had a hand completely free and was working on the remainder of his straps. Within a minute he was on his feet. He took a hesitant step toward the door.

“Wot about me?” Oppie asked.

Prince Albert looked back. “Yes. Yes.” He stumbled over to him. “My loyal subject, I shan’t forget you.”

Just as he unbuckled one of the straps holding Oppie’s arms, the door opened and a man with muttonchops entered, hissing with each step. “You’re awake, Albert. That will not do.”