The Hunchback Assignments (8 page)

“No one. As I told you, I met Mr. Featherstone at—”

“At the Crystal Palace. I remember. But Mr. Featherstone was with me all day yesterday. So your supposed meeting could not have happened.”

“Oh, I remember now.” Modo banged the heel of his
hand on his forehead. “It was actually two days ago. With his sister.”

“Rubbish!” Fuhr bellowed, and Modo shuddered. “Mr. Featherstone is an only child.”

“Only child? But I …” Was the man lying? He had to be. Audrette was real; she had come to his door, had been only inches from him. Or had Modo misunderstood her? Was she a cousin? No. Sister. She’d said sister. Maybe she’d lied about their relationship and was romantically linked with Featherstone. But why would she mislead him?

Fuhr tightened his fists and lumbered closer. “Who sent you? Tell me, boy.” His shoulders continued to swell, pressing against the fabric of his jacket. A metallic clinking could be heard from under the garment.

“No one sent me. I—”

“Liar!” Fuhr’s face twisted with anger. Modo thought he saw mist rising from his collar and then, from the buttonholes of his suit coat. The hissing grew louder. Modo stepped back, bumping the table.

Steam! It was steam!

Fuhr grabbed Modo’s collar. “You will tell me who sent you, boy, if I have to break every bone in your body.”

“But sir, sir, have mercy,” Modo cried out. “Have mercy!”

“No one will hear you. They are gone. Now answer my question.”

“Uh, yes …” Modo flailed about until his hand hit a coat-rack. Tharpa’s voice came to him:
Anything can be a weapon.
The thick wooden pole would be hard enough to brain someone. Modo grabbed it and swung at Fuhr’s temple, but Fuhr
lifted his forearm and the pole broke in two. Fuhr punched Modo in the chest, and Modo grunted; it felt like his ribs had caved in.

Steam geysered out the seams of the giant’s clothing. He swung his massive arm again and Modo caught hold of it. Fuhr slammed him up against the wall. Modo wrenched himself away, ripping the sleeve from Fuhr’s jacket. Modo’s jaw dropped. The arm was made of metal! Pistons pushed back and forth between steel bones, the steam pumping out of holes in narrow iron plates. Fuhr swung yet again, Modo ducked and the man’s fist pounded a hole in the wall. Modo shuddered: What such a blow would do to his skull!

Fuhr grabbed Modo by the neck, the metallic fingers closing around his windpipe. “Stop!” Modo gasped, looking for some way to distract the man. Fuhr squeezed tighter, until Modo could no longer breathe. “You should not have interfered in our affairs,” he said.

In a last, desperate act, Modo jammed his feet against the wall and lunged forward with all his strength, breaking free of Fuhr’s grip. Gagging and coughing, Modo found himself in the center of the room. He stumbled, then ran, threw himself at the nearest door, hoping and praying his strength and speed would be enough to break it down.

He hit it hard with his shoulder and, accidentally, his head. He heard a
crack
, but the door didn’t budge. Modo crumpled to the floor as darkness blotted out all thought.

O
ppie delivered a meal of pork buttons and mashed potatoes to Mr. W’s room. He knocked and waited, knocked again, but there was no answer. He wolfed down a few pieces of pork, then lowered the plate to the floor. It would be safe enough here: The lame dog couldn’t climb the stairs and Oppie hadn’t yet seen a rat in these halls.

It was unusual for Mr. W to be away at mealtime. He seemed to carry on with his business only at night; that is, Oppie had never seen him go out during the day. The chamber pot would be set outside the door every evening, its collection another of Oppie’s duties. Unlike most tenants, Mr. W would at least leave a few pence next to the pot.

Besides the extra money, Mr. W had given Oppie much advice through the closed door. He’d told the boy he was wise for his age and that his interest in reading should be
pursued so he could rise to a better station. He’d also said, “You could be a detective too, young Oppie. You remind me of me when I was younger. You’ve got sharp eyes and a quick mind.” Oppie liked that. A quick mind.

Mr. W had promised to read him a little more of
Varney the Vampire.
Oppie shuddered at the possibility that such a bloodsucking creature might exist. He peered over his shoulder. You’re all in a twitter, he told himself. He tromped down the stairs, though, hoping the noise would ward away anything that might be lurking in the darkness.

“Go on home, lad,” the innkeeper muttered when Oppie stomped into the pub. “You’re done for today.”

Oppie left and trudged along the sidewalk in the dark. His mother was likely still over a ways on Exeter Street, clutching a worn basket and shouting, “Apple a pence!” If he hurried he’d catch her and they could walk home together.

He scratched at the lice on his scalp, then patted his pocket to be sure his coin purse hadn’t gone missing. Fourpence for a whole day of work at the inn, plus the twopence the beautiful woman had given him. His mother had probably earned the same amount. His father would have made nothing because some sickness had crawled down his throat and now he was trapped in bed at home, yellow and thin and moaning about being “just anofer moot ta feed.”

Oppie was taking a shortcut down an alley when he remembered his friends saying that they’d heard a child had disappeared in this very same alley a week ago. Was it Varney the Vampire who had taken him? The boy had been
younger than Oppie, so he probably had short, slow legs. I can outrun anyone, thought Oppie. Besides, the alley was a quicker way to Exeter Street. He shooed a cat out of his path and ran on.

When he heard the twittering of a bird, he slowed down. Its music was out of place among the gray light and the shuttered windows of the buildings. Hundreds of chamber pots had been dumped into the gutter. The smell made his eyes water.

He spotted a flash of silver on a broken, rusted oil lamp. Moving closer he discovered a metallic sparrow perched on the lip of the lamp. It was a clockwork toy, chittering away. It had to be worth a fortune! If he could sell it, his family would live off the money for a month. Who had left it here for any quick-fingered sort to snatch? Maybe the bobbies had set up the bird as a trap. He looked around furtively and, deciding he was safe, reached for the sparrow, grasping only air as the bird hopped away. He lunged at it again and it fluttered to a pipe sticking out of some stonework.

“I’ll be,” Oppie whispered, licking his lips. The creature’s lifelike eyes rolled back and forth, taunting him. “You must be dreaming, Oppie.” He narrowed one eye, as though sighting a gun, and jumped, grabbing for the bird frantically.

This time the sparrow flapped high into the air, twirled around twice, and landed two yards away. It pecked in a circle as though hunting for seeds, then disappeared around a turn in the alley.

Oppie raced ahead to discover the bird sitting on a banged-up crate. It was rubbing at its beak with one wing. It looked at Oppie and cheeped insistently. What wondrous clockwork made it tick? He edged closer; it flitted up to his eye level and began flying down the alley. Oppie broke into a run, only a step or two behind the glittering bird, once even brushing its metal tail feathers with his fingertips. When it flapped through a door, he followed without a second thought.

The bird landed on a man’s outstretched hand. Oppie looked up at him. The man was dressed like a gentleman, with top hat and all, but his hair was long and as white as St. Nick’s. His skin was pale.

“Do you like my pet?” the man asked.

“Yes! A true wonder. I weren’t going to take it, honest!”

“I believe you.” The old man placed a seed on his palm and the bird pecked at it. “I’m Dr. Cornelius Hyde, and I am so pleased to meet a young specimen such as yourself.”

“Pleased to meet you, too, guvnuh.”

The man reached into his greatcoat pocket and produced a second sparrow. It chirped. “Would you like a bird of your own?”

Oppie nodded.

“Then come with me.”

Oppie paused. His mother wouldn’t want him to follow a stranger. But a bird of his own! Maybe two! He could play with them and later they would fetch a good price. Mum
would rub his head and hug him and say, “You’re a good un, darlin’.”

The man set a bird on either shoulder, opened a door, then proceeded down a hallway, while the sparrows sang, their lively marble eyes mesmerizing Oppie, who hurried to keep up.

“H
rrts.”

The raspy voice echoed in the near dark. Modo couldn’t tell where it was coming from.

“
Hrrts id …
”

His throat was parched and his head throbbed. Shadows passed in front of him, but his eyes felt too sore to keep open. He shut them tight.

“
Monnm. Mere mere. Id hrrts. Missshus Feeenchley, help. I hurt.
”

So. It had been his own voice. He tried to touch his lips, but couldn’t move his hands.

“You are in much torment,” a woman said flatly. She had an odd accent. “Do you want your mother?” Modo opened his eyes in anger, only to be blinded by a bright light. “I—I have no mother.”

“That is rather sad.” Her face came into focus. It was
perfect and pale, like the Greek goddesses in the paintings Mrs. Finchley had shown him. She had determined blue eyes, and tightly braided red hair. She straightened up and stepped back a few feet. “You gave yourself a severe blow.”

At once Modo remembered fleeing Fuhr and striking the door. He couldn’t recall anything after that. He tried again to lift his arms, then realized his wrists and ankles were manacled to the thick wooden chair upon which he was slumped.

“Count your lucky stars that you’re still amongst the living,” the woman said, studying him. With a start he wondered if his transformation had lasted. He’d never been knocked out while in this state. Blood pounded in his ears. He tried to touch his face but only rattled the manacles. He searched the woman’s expression for any hint of disgust or revulsion. Finding none, he concluded that he had maintained his form.

“You are too curious, young man,” she said. “Curiosity can lead to fatality.” She chuckled as though she’d been terribly clever.

He could now make out the gaslight, magnified by tin reflectors, directed at his face. He couldn’t see anyone else in the room.

“Wh-Where am I?” he asked.

“I will ask questions, you will answer. I am Miss Hakkandottir. Now you know my name, tell me yours.”

“It’s Mo—Mr. Peterkin. Robert Peterkin. What do you want with me?”

There was a flash of metal, then pain raked his right cheek. He screamed and strained against the manacles.

“I ask questions, you answer. It is a simple arrangement. Do you understand?”

Modo nodded, blood dripping down his face. Red stains spattered across his white sleeves.

“Now, Mr. Peterkin. Under other circumstances, I would be patient, perhaps even hospitable, but there is no time. You have infiltrated our organization, so I need to know: Who employs you?”

He couldn’t tell them about Miss Featherstone. Chances were that she knew little, if anything, about the true nature of this society and he was certain they would do her harm.

Modo ran his sandpaper tongue around the inside of his mouth. His forehead was sweating. “An uncle,” he said, “of one of your members. Of …” He struggled to remember the names on the list. Mr. Socrates had made him work hard on his memorization skills, but he was failing nonetheless. “Sax-Romburg,” he said.

“Saxe-Coburg,” the woman corrected. She tilted her head inquisitively, a flattering angle that made her more beautiful. Except for her eyes; they were reptilian. She rarely blinked, which Modo found most disconcerting. “But you originally enquired about Mr. Featherstone. Are you lying to me?”

Modo shook his head quickly, twitching in anticipation of another blow. “No. No. I was simply trying to throw you off the track of my employer, that was all.”

“How did you know Mr. Featherstone was a member of our society?”

“Mr. Saxe-Coburg is a friend of his, or so I assumed.”

Her eyes burned into his. “So the Royals hired you?”

“Yes, an uncle. Renald. He’s overprotective, by his own admission.”

“Renald. The name isn’t familiar to me. And I know all of them.”

“He lives in Bonne.”

She tapped her temple with her finger. Modo shook his head and looked again. Could it be? Her hand was made of metal, each digit cut in such a way that her fingers curled and moved in the same manner as flesh and bone. She looked at her finger. With a
schlickt
, a razor-sharp nail suddenly appeared. It looked long enough to cut his throat. “You are not telling the truth.”

She stepped closer and Modo tried to edge away, straining so hard to break the manacles that he felt a vein pop out on his forehead. The claw marks on his cheek burned.

Her metal hand gently brushed his cheek, spiderlike. The tips of her fingernails were cold. Fine piano wires extended from her wrist up into the flesh of her arm.

“It is unwise to lie to me,” she said softly. She pointed her index finger at his left eye. Modo pressed himself against the back of the chair. “I must know why you are interested in Saxe-Coburg. Who sent you?”

“I—I don’t know,” he whimpered. “I only accept investigations through the post. I—I never meet my clients in person.”

Her finger was less than an inch away and he couldn’t tell if the nail was still extended. Now she pressed her
finger against his eyeball. Modo let out an anguished grunt. “Stop! Don’t! No!” He spat the words. Would his eye break open? He thought of an egg leaking yolk. “Please! Please! I’ll tell you anything.”

“How do you communicate with these clients of yours?”

“As I said, by letter.”

“When do you next expect them to contact you?” With each word she increased the pressure on his eye.

“Ahhh! Tomorrow. Tomorrow! A letter will be waiting for me.”

“Where?”

“The—the Red Horn. Room—ahhh—three.” He was surprised how well he could lie, even with pain clouding his mind. “Please, don’t. My eye. My eye!”