The Hunchback Assignments (20 page)

What did it mean? Was Mr. Socrates so proud of him that he kept this memento with all his most personal belongings? Or was he perhaps just proud of his ability to mold young people to his will? Next to the mask was a portrait of a woman wearing a red dress. Was Mr. Socrates married? He found it impossible to imagine. Yet, here was a woman, and beside her, a dried rose. And a bracelet small enough for a baby. For a moment Modo allowed himself to imagine it had been his own bracelet.

Modo plucked up the mask and was surprised that it still fit, though perhaps a little too snugly. He opened a drawer and found a pair of thin kid gloves and a belt with pouches, each pouch holding a different item: a small knife, a pocket lucifer, a wire with a small hook, and a fountain pen. He was about to push the unusual button on the pen, but decided against it in case it sprayed ink. He buckled the belt under the suit jacket, checked his mask in the mirror, tightened the cloak’s hood, and pulled on the gloves.

He was exhausted, but made his way back to the bathroom and found the torn piece of paper with Dr. Hyde’s writing on it. He tucked it in a pocket and went to the front door, where Octavia was waiting. Her hair was still damp and she was tying it back.

“You’re wearing a disguise again, I see. A bout of shyness?”

“No, the rash is worse, that’s all.”

“You’re a very odd man, Modo. And you seem shorter.” Modo stood up as tall as he could. “Well, that’s better,” she said and stopped fussing with her hair. “While you’ve been playing dress up, I’ve come up with a plan. But first we must hurry down to Berkeley for a cab. No time to talk now.”

They arrived on Berkeley Street, breathless, and Octavia hailed a cab. She gave the driver an address near Seven Dials.

“Why there?” Modo asked.

“At other times, when needed, I have relied on contacts from my old life.”

“Your old life?”

“My time as a pickpocket and grifter.”

“And you still have dealings with these thieves?” Modo blurted out.

“Why are you so judgmental?”

“I’m not judgmental!”

This prompted a snort from Octavia. “Who did you play with to make you behave this way?” she asked.

“I didn’t play. I never left the house.”

“You never left the house? Ever?”

“Not until six months ago.”

She actually looked concerned; maybe even sad. “That’s terribly cruel.”

“No, no. Mr. Socrates was training me to be an agent.”

“How many years were you there?”

“Thirteen.”

“Thirteen years!” Her eyes flashed.

“He saved me,” Modo said weakly. But he knew she was right, at least in part. It was where his own anger was rooted. There was so much more he would have learned had he been allowed to live a real life.

“Saved you from what, Modo?”

Of course, he couldn’t tell her that. Mr. Socrates had told him that he was such a deformed child that the orphanage had sold him to gypsies and they had profited from displaying his ugliness in a traveling grotesqueries show. “He just did. You must believe me.”

“He’s not much better than this Dr. Hyde, then.”

“Mr. Socrates is kind to you and to me!”

“For his own purposes, yes.”

“No, he … he …” And Modo nearly said the words
loves me.
But he had no way of knowing that.

“This is confounding you, Modo. I’m sorry, but I do like to speak my mind. It would be best if you got used to it.”

He glared at her, but he didn’t imagine she could mea sure his anger through the mask. The way she sat with her back so straight, her face so haughty, infuriated him. How dare she speak of Mr. Socrates that way, after all the master had done for her. For him. For Britain.

“Are you done sulking?” she asked as the hansom cab pulled to a stop. “If not, you can stay in here.” She climbed out and paid the driver.

Modo leapt down from his side. Octavia had already gone on ahead, crowds of muffin men and vagabonds closing in around her. It was midafternoon, and they hoped to sell their wares to sailors and other workers going to or coming from the docks. Modo snapped his head to the left and right, searching for Octavia, his heart beating wildly. He glanced at the nearest rooftop, every nerve shouting for him to flee the hordes. He’d been in this section of St. Giles before, but always on a rooftop. People jostled him; someone’s elbow nearly knocked his mask off.

Then, through a break in the crowd, he spotted Octavia striding away from him. Modo ran for a breathless minute and caught up with her.

“Don’t dawdle,” she said.

“Don’t walk so fast!”

She stopped in front of a child, his unkempt hair the color of coal, his shirt more holes than thread. The boy’s eyes darted back and forth between Modo and Octavia.

“Take me to Taff,” she said.

“Taff ent just seein’ nobody,” he replied. “You wait ’ere, I’ll ask ’im ’bout an audience.” He darted off, slipping into the crowd like a weasel into a hole, and came back a few minutes later with an older boy who said, “Mr. Taff will see you now.” The older child led the three of them down a narrow alley. They passed doors crowded with half-crazed looking men, thin and pale.

“Opium dens,” Octavia said, matter-of-factly.

Modo had heard about those places. Men smoked the substance and it turned them into monsters; that was how Mrs. Finchley had explained it to Modo.

The boys led them into an ancient lodging house. The timbers had shifted so that the frame was at a precarious angle and the rotted door swung on one hinge. Inside were several tables; an old man sat at one of them. At the sight of Octavia, he stood and walked toward her, every second step thumping loudly on the slatted floor. When he got around the table, Modo could see that he had a wooden leg. He held a mug that sloshed with beer.

“Old Taff thought it were a lady come to visit.” The man had a gray-black beard and fiery eyes. “But it’s just my dear ol’ Octavia. And look at you, all fancied up and haristocratic, I see. And who’s his lordship beside ’er?”

“My companion’s name is Modo.”

“Oh, and listen to you! Speaking all refined and like that. Who you calling ‘friend’ these days, I wonder?”

Octavia rolled her eyes.

“Oh, I know, I know,” Taff continued, “the word is you keep interesting company these days, including this man. Pray tell, why the mask?”

Octavia replied before Modo had a chance. “He’s a frowner. It makes his face look rather nasty.”

Modo stiffened.

Taff nodded, gave Modo a wink. “I should wear a mask too. Me figurehead ain’t so pleasant. Neither’s the rest of me.” He tapped his wooden leg and chortled. “Suppose you’re wondering where my good leg went? Well, lad, it’s shark food. Lost it to a cannonball in service of ’Er Majesty.
A cryin’ shame. Me boys are me legs now.” He took a chug from his beer. “Well, Octavia, as always Ol’ Taff is ’appy to see you. None of these scabs could match your skill. You be lookin’ for employment, then?”

She laughed lightly. “It’s wisest to leave that business once one reaches hanging age. Garret taught me that.”

Taff nodded. “’Is death still makes me ’eart ’eavy. I miss that lad.”

“Yes, and well you should,” she said, rather coldly. “I’ve come for a favor.”

“A favor?” Taff rubbed his hands together. “Yes, I so enjoy providin’ favors.”

“I need you to tell me what you know about all the missing children.”

“The inspectors don’t want to talk about it, but me business is hurtin’. I’ve lost several of me mob already.”

“Did you ever find any of them again?”

“One boy, Willie, and ’e told tales of laborin’ under the ground in tunnels. Then ’e went yellow and died. I think ’is insides stopped workin’.”

Modo imagined Oppie dying the same hideous way. “Who’s behind the kidnappings?” he asked.

“Oh, so ’e speaks, does ’e?” Taff said with a sneer.

“Yes, and he asked an important question,” Octavia said.

“The papers are wrong. The number of urchins who’ve disappeared is much ’igher. None of my riffraff’ll work at night anymore. I cain’t say I blames ’em. I’d go meself, but for this gimp leg. Lost it to a cannonball, you know.”

“You mentioned that,” Modo said.

“Did I? Hmmm. Must be goin’ balmy, eh?”

“Where did you find that boy? Willie?” Octavia asked.

“The other boys found ’im near a boarded-up train tunnel entrance on Fleet Lane. Closed to the public, if you gets me meaning.”

“I do,” Octavia said.

“And that will be one favor owed.” There was a gruffness in his voice and a sly glint in his eye. “I shall remember that, Octavia.”

O
ppie did not rest or even stop to eat. His body followed the commands of the men in greatcoats, shoveling coal from the rail cart into a huge burning furnace. Other men melted metal and hammered it into shapes on several anvils. When the cart was empty, Oppie would walk down the track and, along with several children, drag the next cart into place and begin to shovel again.

Once he slipped on loose coal and fell onto his back without a sound, despite the excruciating pain. He’d been instructed not to make any noise, and so he didn’t.

It was while lying on his back that he first saw the roof of the large cavern, lines of gaslights hanging from wires stretched wall to wall, scaffolding reaching to the top. For a brief time, he was able to control his hand. He stared at his palm. It was blistered and black with coal dust. He turned it over to see hairs growing across the back. Then he
found he could turn his other hand over and, realizing that he had control of part of his body again, he thought about running. Yes, if only he could make his legs move, he could roll over and run. He touched the bolts in his shoulders and began to moan. Then one of the guards shouted and the doctor brought more of the burning drink. His body went back to its task.

Sometime later the doctor stood beside him, saying, “You’re my creation now. Come with me.” He led Oppie along a metal framework, past the machine the children had helped construct. Oppie didn’t understand what it was. It had arms at least fifteen feet long, but what would it lift? “You will have a very special place,” the doctor told Oppie.

They climbed a ramp and walked across the machine. Spread out flat below their feet were many metallic rectangular boxes, like small coffins, with manacles chained inside each one. The doctor told Oppie to lie down in one of the boxes with his back on a leather hammock. A large man leaned over, grunting as he attached Oppie’s shoulder bolts to the rectangle and tightened them in place with a wrench. He snapped Oppie’s feet into manacles.

“This will keep you steady,” the doctor said, “for you’ll be shouldering a heavy load.” He showed Oppie two wires. They were attached to a hand-sized gyroscope above his head. “The filaments will send you messages only your muscles will understand and will draw from your inner energy.” He clamped a wire to each of Oppie’s bolts and the filaments immediately began to glow. Sparks flew and Oppie felt his muscles tighten. The gyroscope above his head began to spin. “It is set properly. Good.”

The doctor patted his arm. “I know, it’s hard to understand, but I’m proud of you and all your brothers and sisters. The mind … the mind is turning out to be more powerful than even I had understood it to be. And, in the end, it is the mind that will bring this whole machine to life.”

The doctor left and Oppie could only stare upward. He wanted to shout,
Let me go!
but it was impossible.

Two men stepped over him, grunting, carrying a body. The body’s head flopped forward and Oppie found himself looking right into the glazed eyes of Prince Albert. The prince showed no hint of recognizing him or even being aware of his surroundings. The men lowered the prince out of Oppie’s sight, but by the tightening of screws, Oppie guessed they were bolting him to the machine.

“What? What is this?” Prince Albert slurred.

“Ah, enough, tut-tut.” It was the doctor’s voice. “More of the potion. It will make you feel better.” This was followed by a gurgling sound and a cough. “You will be the heart cog, Your Highness,” the doctor explained. “I’m so proud of you. I’m so very proud of all of you.”

I
t wasn’t until Modo and Octavia had walked several streets past the rookeries and rotting inns of St. Giles that they found a cabbie who’d been brave enough to drive through the most dangerous parts of London. Once in the cab they bumped and jostled along, eventually passing better streets and then, Newgate Prison. The sight of the massive stone building turned Modo’s imagination to the many criminals trapped within it, pacing their cells, dreaming of the murders they’d commit once released. He scolded himself. Some might be as innocent as Oscar Featherstone. The poor young man was likely pacing the floor himself, at the edge of madness by now. Newgate Prison was where Featherstone would be taken to be hanged. Which reminded Modo of something else. “May I ask you a question?” he said. Octavia grinned. “May I tell you a lie?”

He faked a chuckle, found his throat was dry. “Who was Garret? You and Taff referred to him.”

Her smile faded and her eyes hardened. “A mate. He looked out for me.”

“Why was he hanged?”

“He was caught stealing a pocket watch. A pocket watch is worth a life, that’s what the haristocrats think. Didn’t take long for them to decide he was guilty, either. Next thing we knew ol’ Garret was dancing upon nothing.” Her eyes teared up and she dabbed at them with her fingertips. “I watched him hang. All of us mates went to wish him well. It was one of the last public hangings. I was eleven. I learned something that day.”

“What?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Modo did want to know, but the look in her eyes made him hesitate to pursue it any further.

The cab let them off at Fleet Lane. The sidewalk was crammed with people who were certainly better dressed than the denizens of St. Giles, but they didn’t seem to care whom they bumped into. A few stared at Modo and he wondered if it was because they were amazed that he was with such a beautiful young woman. Or was it just the mask? I could take it off, he thought. That would give them something to look at.