Read The Hunchback Assignments Online
Authors: Arthur Slade
Modo walked haltingly toward the children, each step a labor. A cherub-faced soldier was giving pieces of chocolate to the ones who were awake. Others appeared to be asleep. Modo had expected that a few of them would be dead, and was glad, so glad, to not see any who had perished. Finally, he found the one he was looking for. “Oppie,” he said.
The boy looked up. He was holding a chocolate bar, his fingers sticky. “Wot?” he said. His face still looked puffy, his body enlarged by the tincture, but Modo could see some of the boy’s finer features coming back.
“I’m Mr. Wellington,” Modo said.
“Oh, it’s Mr. W, is it? You’re here, too. Fancy ’at.”
“I was investigating all of this. And I’m so glad you weren’t harmed,” Modo said.
“’Armed? Well, me too, guvnuh,” he said, talking through another mouthful of chocolate. Modo noticed a military cross pinned to his shirt.
“Where did you get that?”
“Prince Albert gave me that just before they took ’im away. Said ’e’s going to give me a tour of Buckin’am.”
Modo grinned. “I hope you’ll still have time to listen to the rest of Varney.”
“Will I! You bet, Mr. W.”
“Well, I’ll look you up in the next while. And we can do that.”
Modo stepped back a few feet. The boy continued eating and Modo watched with satisfaction. He was alive. He looked around at the other children and spotted a girl with red hair gulping down her own chocolate. Could she be Ester? They were all alive. Coming back to their old selves.
At his back he heard a step and a small
thud.
Without turning, Modo said, “Mr. Socrates, I presume.”
Mr. Socrates laughed. “Welcome back to the land of the living. You accomplished an impressive feat. You must feel proud.”
Modo felt only bone weary. “Thank you.”
“That structure … it really was a marvel. We have much to learn from it.”
“It was a monstrosity.”
“You are mistaken, Modo. What Dr. Hyde and the Clockwork Guild did to the children was immoral. The young should not be used to fight battles; that’s not the gentleman’s way. But the war machine itself is a marvel of scientific ingenuity. Imagine twenty of them on a battlefield.”
Modo wanted to disagree, but thought better of it. “Why did they do it?” he asked. “What did they hope to gain?”
“It’s a symbolic first strike. My best guess is that they hoped that papers all across the world would report on this incident. We’ll cover up what details we can, but we cannot hide the fact that the Houses of Parliament, the very heart of our empire, were attacked. What they want to spread is fear. Sometimes governments are paralyzed just waiting for the next blow. They begin pointing fingers at one another, markets falter, and soon the peasants are out in the streets sharpening their axes. But you shouldn’t trouble yourself thinking about all this business now. You need some rest.”
“Gibbons—that is, Mr. Gibbons—he”—Modo’s breath was labored—“betrayed you.”
Mr. Socrates gave Modo a sharp look. “Explain.”
“I had a run-in with him in the chamber under Saint James’s Square. With Miss Hakkandottir.”
Mr. Socrates patted Modo’s shoulder. “That is important information. Thank you. I’ll have Tharpa take you to a safe place to recover from this assignment.” He paused. “I’m very pleased with what you’ve done in these past few days.”
Modo nodded. “It was only my duty, sir.”
Mr. Socrates smiled. “Yes. Duty. If only we all felt as much loyalty to it as you do.”
As Tharpa guided him into the carriage, Modo asked, “Where’s Octavia?”
“She has returned to the Langham. She was tired and wet.”
“Wet?”
“She’s the one who pulled you out of the river.”
“She did?” He remembered seeing her swim toward him. He’d thought it was an angel. He’d believed he was dead.
“Then,” he said in amazement, “I owe her my life.”
“Yes,” Tharpa said, as he sat in the seat across from Modo. He banged on the roof and, with the clomping of hooves, the carriage rolled down Abingdon Street, leaving the giant, the children, the soldiers, and the smashed Houses of Parliament behind.
O
n his fourth day of rest Modo sat on a chaise longue at the edge of a large balcony overlooking Kew Gardens. The view of shrubs, trees, and a glass house reminded him of Ravenscroft. He passed his time dressed in nightclothes and a heavy, warm robe, his face behind a white mask. A nightcap hid his pockmarked skull. The sun warmed him and a pug-nosed servant brought him tea and food and the
Times
whenever he desired it. He was becoming especially fond of croissants and jam.
Not once did he see a mention in the papers of the attack on the Houses of Parliament. All he found were a couple of paragraphs about renovations and a piece about a tunnel collapsing directly beneath St. James’s Square. Obviously, the Permanent Association’s influence ran deep within the publishers’ networks. How all the witnesses were silenced, Modo didn’t know. But if no one would print their
words other than the most disreputable papers, the whole event would eventually become little more than fodder for drunken pub tales.
Today Modo’s morning paper ritual was interrupted by the tap of a walking stick and the scrape of a chair on the floor. He lowered the
Times
to see Mr. Socrates sitting across from him. The bruise below his eye was gone.
“How goes your recuperation?” Mr. Socrates asked.
“I’m doing well, sir. I enjoy being pampered.”
“You deserve the rest. You achieved so much in a short time.
Modo smiled behind the mask. “I’ve been taught well.”
Mr. Socrates let out a short laugh. “I don’t need compliments, young man. And let’s not forget that you did disobey me when you chose to confront the mechanized leviathan on your own. I suppose it’s a sign that you can think for yourself, but I could have lost you.”
Was that emotion in his voice? Modo looked him in the eyes, but they gave nothing away. “Don’t disobey me again,” Mr. Socrates said.
If I hadn’t disobeyed you, many of those children would have died, he thought. But Modo decided it was best just to nod in agreement. “What will become of the orphans?” he asked, finally.
“They lost their wolflike features as the tincture wore off, and so far, none of them has had any measurable aftereffects. We’ve been removing the bolts so they can live normal lives. The Association has set up an orphange for the ones who have no caregivers. In time they’ll likely find employment in the colonies.”
“There was a boy, his name was Oppie. What of him?”
“Oppie? Yes, Octavia asked about him too. And about the girl, Ester. Both my agents appear to have become a little too sentimental.” But he said this with a smile. “Oppie is healing and will soon be delivered to his parents. He seems to have suffered no ill effects. But only time will tell.”
“That’s good news, then.” Modo sipped his tea. “And what of Gibbons?”
Mr. Socrates shrugged. “He was found in the Thames, a knife in his back. I assume the Clockwork Guild was finished with him.”
Modo couldn’t help but wonder if Mr. Socrates was telling the truth. Gibbons had, after all, been a double agent. It was best not to dwell on it. He buttered a croissant, watching as two swans landed in a pond in the distant gardens. “I do worry about Oscar Featherstone,” Modo said.
“Ah, that is an unfortunate situation. He will be hanged next week.”
“But he’s innocent!”
“No one outside our circle knows about Hyde’s tincture, so his lawyer cannot use it for his defense. Oscar did kill his father; there’s no way to stop justice once its wheels have begun to roll.”
“That’s not fair!”
Mr. Socrates shook his head. “It’s not about fairness, Modo. There are some things that cannot be revealed. It’s that simple.” He got up from his chair. “I want you to rest your mind and body. That’s your assignment now. You’re not to be concerned about the larger picture; all is unfolding as
it should.” He took a step to go, then turned back. “You have another visitor, by the way. I shall send her up.”
Modo tapped his fingers together nervously. Mrs. Finchley? Octavia? He wasn’t sure which one he wanted to see more. He didn’t have time to change his face, but he made his body longer, his hump less obvious, and his shoulders a little wider.
A minute later Octavia appeared on the balcony in a blue dress and a thick white shawl. The sight of her made him draw in a deep breath, and his nostrils whistled. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to hear it. He wished he could take her for a walk in Kew Gardens.
“Miss Milkweed,” he said.
“Mr. Modo.”
“Apparently, I owe you my life.”
“Yes,” she said simply. “I’m not sure what overtook me.”
“Perhaps you couldn’t live without my sense of humor.”
She laughed. “I see you are feeling better.”
“Much better. Well fed, too. I’m as stuffed as a Christmas turkey.”
“Good. Good.”
She seemed distracted, not quite herself. Modo wasn’t certain what to say, so he asked, “And how are you?”
“I am well.”
A silence descended. She looked out over Kew Gardens and said, “It is a beautiful view.”
“Especially now that you are here.” He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Perhaps the drop of morphine he had taken had loosened his tongue.
Octavia gave him a crooked smile. “There are two things that confuse me, Modo. The first is about myself. I don’t know why I dove into that water after you. It felt as though it was about more than just trying to save a comrade.”
Modo wanted to say,
Maybe you have feelings for me
, but he had already said something foolish enough. His heart was a hummingbird.
“As I said, it confuses me. Why would I risk my life? Do you have an answer?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“I—I don’t know,” he said. He couldn’t say another word. She was so beautiful, he thought, and he remembered his own revulsion each time he looked in the mirror.
“I am also confused … about who you are, exactly. So far I have seen you with two faces, if that makes sense. It’s impossible, but it was not my imagination. I’d like to know which one was real. I have to know what you look like. Then I will know who you are.”
“I can’t explain it,” he said.
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Yes. I do trust you, Octavia.”
“Then show me your face, Modo. I beg of you. So I might know you. It’s as simple as removing that mask.”
It
was
that simple. He could just lower the mask, show his true self and be done with it. But his hand faltered as he raised it.
His face was not a face. It was a horrid hole where a face
should be. She would take one look and that would be the end of everything. He couldn’t show her now. Not ever. He was ugly. Mr. Socrates had told him so. He saw it himself every day.
“You cannot look at my real face,” he said, surprised that his voice only quavered a little. “No one can ever see it.”
She sighed softly. “Very well,” she said, and silently walked into the house and was gone.
Modo got up and went to the railing to stare out at the gardens. This was the way things had to be. It was better for both of them. Yes. It was.
The birds began singing again. The sun was bright in the sky.
O
SCAR
F
EATHERSTONE AWAKENED EARLY
on the morning of his hanging. Birdsong drifted through the arrow-slit window. The simple, beautiful melody brought tears to his eyes.
His lawyer had been a bone-thin man with the peculiar name of Dubney Swinder and the odd habit of wearing a yellow cravat that made his pale face appear translucent. Oscar, his hope long since gone, had recognized the lackluster nature of his barrister. The court session had been over in less than ten minutes; the rotund judge in his white wig banged the gavel, and his pronouncement of death by hanging reverberated. “The court doth order you to be taken from hence to the place from whence you came, and thence to the place of execution, and that you be hanged by the neck until you are dead. And may the Lord have mercy upon your soul!”
Oscar’s mother, wearing her black crinoline dress and waving a black handkerchief, had begun to wail uncontrollably
from the gallery as two Beefeaters hauled him back to the prisoner wagon.
In a few short hours, Beefeaters would place him in the same wagon and haul him to the gallows in Newgate Prison. His only consolation was that there would be no crowds. Public hangings had been banned several years ago. The hangman would have to be there, of course.
A key clicked in the cell door, but Oscar didn’t bother to raise his head. Part of him wanted to grab onto the bars of his cell and hold tight, forcing a scene and making them drag him out of the prison, but another part didn’t really care how the next few hours of his life went. The door swung open, rusty hinges screeching. A Beefeater holding a lantern entered. “Oscar Featherstone,” he said.
“Yes.”
“It is time.”
“No. No.” Oscar swallowed the lump in his throat. Maintain your dignity, he told himself. “It’s too early.”
“We must go now. They don’t appreciate us being late.”
Oscar looked up. It was York, the man who had taken to taunting him with a raspy version of
“The hangman is a tricky knave, he soon my neck will draw.”
York was all business as he roughly unshackled Oscar from the wall and pushed him out of the cell. It had been weeks since Oscar had walked any distance and he staggered down the hall, his shackles clanking. They’d already rubbed his flesh raw and every step hurt.
York grabbed Oscar by the shoulder and pushed him down the hallways of the Lieutenant’s Lodgings. They
encountered one maid, who covered her mouth as they rattled past.
Oscar was shoved through a door into the open air. He had a moment to look at the sky, then he was thrown into the back of a cell wagon and the door was slammed shut. Ravens cawed, chiding him from the top of the Bell Tower. He watched through the bars as the wagon rumbled away from the Tower of London.
It was a little past sunrise, but already costermongers and dockworkers were plodding along the sidewalks of the Tower Bridge to their jobs. A few squinted at the wagon as it passed.
He wondered about the moment he would know death, and brought his hands to his neck. Would it hurt? Would he see his father again in the afterlife? If so, he would ask for forgiveness. He huddled in the corner, trying to keep his sobs silent.
After what felt like an hour, the wagon stopped and York opened the door. “Get out, and be careful not to bang your head,” he said with an unexpected gentleness. He guided Oscar down to the road.
When Oscar looked up he was shocked speechless.
He was standing just inside the gates of his father’s estate.
York unlocked the handcuffs and they clattered onto the cobblestone drive.
“I … I don’t understand. What’s happening?”
“You were not responsible for your father’s death,” York said. In the brightening morning light York seemed shorter
and a little hunched over. “They’ll hang you for the crime anyway. Justice isn’t always on the side of the just.”
“But why are you releasing me?”
“I’m not who you think I am.”
At that moment, Oscar saw that the man wasn’t York. He had very similar features, that was all. “Who—who are you?”
He grabbed Oscar’s shoulders firmly. “Listen, carefully, Mr. Featherstone. You have very little time. March into that house, shave off your beard, cut and color your hair with shoe polish, and disguise yourself in your servant’s clothes. Ask your mother for money, as much as possible, and tell her she must never admit you were here. Do not imagine, even for a second, that it would be safe for you to hide out in England. Take the first boat you can find to America or Australia. Do this within the half hour.” He unlocked Oscar’s leg manacles. “Go now!”
“Thank you. I thank you,” Oscar said, nearly weeping with relief.
“It was the right thing to do,” the man said over his shoulder as he walked away. “Mrs. Finchley would be proud of me.”
Not quite believing any of the last few minutes, Oscar Featherstone watched the man climb back onto the wagon and ride through the front gate toward the rising sun. Then Oscar ran into his home to find his mother.