Authors: Arthur Slade
He rubbed his head and thought of Octavia. Just picturing her pale, perfect face made his heart race. A little more than two months ago, she had knocked at the door of his ancient room at the Red Boar, pretending to be someone else, and sent him on his first major assignment. Together they had explored sewers, faced the mechanical hounds created by the infamous Dr. Hyde, and stopped a giant machine that threatened the Houses of Parliament. She had pulled him, half drowned, from the Thames. He would always owe her his life. In the intense days of that assignment, he’d grown close to her. Because they were risking their lives together? Or was it something more?
He’d seen her only once more since then—on the balcony overlooking Kew Gardens, where he’d spent his mornings recuperating. She had asked to see his true face and he had refused; it wasn’t a face for beautiful eyes to look upon. He wondered if she’d felt betrayed. She was the only fellow agent he knew, and he considered her a friend. But there would be no point in asking the ever-secretive Mr. Socrates
about Octavia. He never shared information about other agents.
“This will heal your wounds,” Tharpa said from behind him, making Modo jump. Zounds! Even after years of training at Tharpa’s side, learning to slow his heart rate, to hear every twitch or creak of wood, his teacher could still sneak up on him.
Tharpa was holding a bottle and a jar of salve. Modo pulled back his sleeve and held out his arm for Tharpa to splash the wounds with alcohol. It burned, but then Tharpa applied the cool green salve.
“When will I learn to walk as silently as you?” Modo asked.
“When you learn to become the air itself.”
Modo lifted an eyebrow and Tharpa laughed. “It sounded very wise, did it not?”
Modo heard footsteps, and a moment later Mr. Socrates entered the kitchen.
“Ah, good, Modo.” He put his hand on Modo’s shoulder, and Modo felt the warmth of his touch. It was so rare for Mr. Socrates to display affection. This is what a father would do, Modo thought, place his hand on his son’s shoulder.
“I have transcribed what I can. After you eat, I want you to return to your room at the Langham. You’re finished with this assignment.”
O
n the last day of his life Matthew Wyle left his apartment on Lafayette Place, stepped onto the sidewalk, pulled his bowler hat down tighter on his head, and walked southeast. In his forty-eight years he’d seen wars in Afghanistan and skirmishes in India, had lost an eye to a Mexican saber and been shipwrecked on a Caribbean island. This afternoon he felt as though he’d risk all those misadventures to escape the brazen, ice-cold wind that tore through the bustling streets of New York. It made his bones rattle and dried out his glass eye.
A few short hours earlier he’d received a telegram from Mr. Socrates giving the location of a meeting room in the Astor Library, a favorite haunt of French
espions
. That made him chuckle; all this time spent secretly trying to unearth the various cells of international spies and agents that thrived in New York, and here was a cell, right in the very library he
visited twice a week to relax and read Shakespeare. His orders were to discover what they did in that room and telegraph his findings to Mr. Socrates.
A faint cough a few feet behind him made Wyle bristle, but when he turned there was no one close to him. In his twenty years of being a spy, he often presumed, correctly, that he was being followed. Lately, however, it too often seemed to be his imagination, for he could never catch anyone at it, the way he used to. He knew of agents who’d been dragged off to the asylum, screaming about shadowy pursuers. Was this the first sign of his own madness? Even his sleep was no longer undisturbed. Last night he’d woken to the sound of a similar cough, right in his apartment. The sense that he was being observed had been overpowering, yet a search of the place revealed no intruder.
Wyle climbed the library steps. Inside, he caught a pleasant whiff of books that reminded him wistfully of his youth in Ottawa, Canada, before he joined the British Royal Navy. His mother had kept her own library and often read to him. For a moment he was a child again; then he guffawed. Here he was, a grown man, scarred by several battle wounds, with only one eye, thinking of his mother.
He passed a gathering of dapper men with neatly trimmed beards, and one steely-eyed young woman in a black dress. The woman looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her.
As he climbed the stairs at the back of the library, it dawned on him: the young woman’s upright, confident disposition reminded him of Colette Brunet, the French spy. She’d been just as confident, and extremely difficult to find.
He’d tracked her to New York, but a few weeks ago he’d lost her. A slippery fox, that one. How could he lose a half-Japanese, half-French girl?
The top floor of the library had the largest selection of books on philosophy in the city, but no one seemed to want to read them. He appeared to have the whole floor to himself. The morning light reflected off the windows of the building across the street, making him blink. His good eye had always been sensitive to bright light.
He found the door to the meeting room behind a long stack of books. It was ajar. And, oddly, a fedora lay on the floor just inside. His hand hovered over the miniature pistol in his breast pocket. Moving closer to the doorway, he noticed that the hat was smeared with a red stain. He grasped his pistol tightly and peered into the room. A curtain was open just a few inches, leaving much of the room in shadow.
He pushed the door, annoyed by the squeaking of its hinges. It hit something and stopped. He held his pistol at his chest and poked his head briefly around the door.
On the floor of the room was the body of a huge man, his muscular neck at a sharp angle. A knife lay beside him. Judging by the papers strewn about the room, and the overturned table and chair, the man had struggled before dying.
Wyle remained calm. He’d seen many such sights before. He breathed slowly, listening for signs of the killer. Nothing.
Wyle was able to open the door enough to squeeze past. A piece of paper floated through the air, which was odd; the windows were shut, so there was no breeze. Shelves on either side of the room held a few books. The table closest to
the window was littered with papers, as was the floor. He listened carefully. Nothing. He reached down and felt the man’s neck. Still warm. No pulse. A fleur-de-lis tattoo was on his right wrist: he’d been in the French Navy.
Wyle picked up papers from the floor as he walked over to the table. They were French documents, which he read easily as he thumbed through them. The killer was likely another agent. Russians? Germans? From the Clockwork Guild? This Guild was new to him, but the name had appeared in several of the messages from his masters. He knew very little about the Guild, only that he should keep watch for any insignia that looked like clockwork. Typically vague orders from above.
Among the documents was a map of the Atlantic Ocean, marked with red ink in the vicinity of Iceland. Scrawled across the top was the word
Ictíneo
.
He came across a page that read:
VSVYWBT KEUW 6035236
Code, obviously. He wouldn’t have time to decipher it just now.
He heard a cough from the corner near the window and spun around, pistol cocked. It was the barking cough he’d been hearing over the past few days.
My imagination is becoming more vivid with age, he decided. He gathered the papers, stuffed them into his satchel, and left the room.
On the way back to his apartment, he checked several times to see if anyone was following him. He went in the building and climbed the stairs, his left knee aching. He unlocked his door, hung his coat on the rack, and sat at the
table to work at the line of code. It was likely the Vigenère cipher, the preferred method of secret communication for the French. What they didn’t know was that the British had cracked it years ago. After several minutes he noticed he’d left the door open.
“You’re getting old,” he told himself, and got up to close it.
He went back to the numbers and letters.
Grand poisson 6035236
Grand poisson
was “big fish.” But what were the numbers for? At once it came to him.
He felt a pair of hands close tightly around his throat. A man’s voice said, “Ah, that is the information I’ve been trying to decode.” There was a hint of an English accent. Wyle flung himself backward but was thrown to the ground, his face shoved into the floor so hard he felt his nose snap. He didn’t get so much as a glimpse of his assailant. He felt a knee jammed into his spine as fingers closed off his windpipe.
“What do the numbers mean?” the voice hissed. “Tell me!”
Wyle answered with a cough and a valiant attempt to suck in air. I don’t want to die without seeing my attacker’s face, he thought. He twisted around but saw nothing. The last thing Wyle heard as the final bit of air puffed out of his lungs was eerie, childlike laughter.
A
lone in the dining room at the Langham Hotel, Modo finished his breakfast of cheese scones and apples, wiped his lips with the napkin, and let out a satisfied huff. He was wearing his Mr. Dawkins face again—a face that was handsome enough, but not overly so. No sense attracting unwanted attention.
This was the life! It already felt as though years had passed since he’d last seen Ravenscroft, the house in the country where he’d been raised from a toddler until he was a young man. Mr. Socrates had told him he was likely fourteen now, because he had rescued him during what appeared to be Modo’s first year of life. But no one could be certain. He had never celebrated a birthday. Maybe he was fifteen! Time was always playing games with him. The years in Ravenscroft sometimes seemed so short because every
memory he had of his early life had taken place in the same three rooms.
He’d spent all that time indoors, reading history, learning how to change his shape, training with Tharpa, and working on his acting skills with his governess, Mrs. Finchley. Only eight months ago, Mr. Socrates had taken him from Ravenscroft and left him in London to fend for himself.
He did like the Langham. It was so much better than his first, rat-infested room at Seven Dials. And, after all, Octavia had stayed here. It was the place they’d first met face to face. That made him laugh—well, it wasn’t this face she’d seen, but another he called the Knight. Had Mr. Socrates sent her somewhere else? She could be in Wales for all he knew. Or France. That would be disconcerting. Surely Mr. Socrates wouldn’t send a girl out of the country.
He feared he might never see her again. He pushed away from the table and went up to room 327, where he found a note left under the door:
Report to Victor House at once. You no longer need the room or your accoutrements. They will be handled by my staff
.
Another assignment already? It had only been two days since his last visit to Victor House. Modo burned the note in the sink and undressed. His dining suit had been specially tailored by Norton & Sons on Savile Row, and he hoped he would be able to wear it again soon. Mr. Socrates would store it at one of his many properties. Modo pulled on cheaper clothes and a dark jacket and let his features slip away, his face changing to its real shape, his hump rising on his back.
There was no point in retaining this shape any longer; Mr. Socrates would only ask him to revert to his normal appearance once he arrived. Modo chose a flesh-colored mask. No one but Tharpa and Mr. Socrates were supposed to see his actual face.
Grabbing a haversack, Modo took one last look at his room with its green satin curtains, red bedspread, and brass gas lamps. He’d been here for several weeks before the French embassy assignment, resting and preparing, with all the comforts. Hot and cold running water! Silk bathrobe! Now he would leave all that behind.
He walked down the stairs, receiving odd looks from the very staff who had nodded politely to him earlier. He found the mask to be a useful weapon. He could glare through the eyeholes and silence anyone who had too many questions.
Soon a cab left him in front of Victor House. Just as Modo was lifting his hand to knock, Tharpa opened the door, then led him to the main room.
Mr. Socrates was sitting at the library table with Octavia Milkweed. Modo drew in a long breath, and his hand automatically flew up to his mask to be sure it was in place. It had been nearly two months since he’d last set eyes upon her, and now he couldn’t stop looking. She had on a green satin dress, her hair tied up under a green bonnet, and she wore white gloves. He straightened his back as much as possible, his twisted spine complaining.
“Ah, Modo, please join us for tea,” Mr. Socrates said. “You remember Octavia, I presume.”
“Of course, good morning to you, Miss Milkweed.” He bowed slightly, intending to look princely.
She gave him a mischievous smile. “Good morning, Modo, you haven’t changed a bit in the last while. In fact you don’t look a day over … twelve.”
“What?” Modo sat awkwardly on a chair. Something about her put him off balance. “I’m older than that!”
“Ah, yes, so you say. I see you are masked, yet again. Playing a villain in a play?”
“Yes,” he said, searching for a clever counterquip. Nothing. He couldn’t think of the name of a single drama. “Yes, I am playing a villain.”
As though it were the end of a boxing match, Mr. Socrates rang a small dinner bell. “Tea will be right up,” he said, a hint of a smile on his face.
Octavia looked quite full of herself. The last time Modo had seen her he’d been nearly certain she was going to confess that she cared deeply for him. Or, at least, for his visage of the day. If he were to show her his real face, she would be disgusted.
Cook entered, holding a tray of sweet biscuits and tea. He was a small, barrel-chested man, his face a mass of scars. He poured tea and retreated to the kitchen.
“It’s a fine blend of black tea flavored with bergamot oil,” Mr. Socrates said. “My own recipe; a secret that will go to the grave with me.”