The Hunchback Assignments

by Arthur Slade

  17

  An Arrow Strikes Its Target

  That same morning Oscar Featherstone awakened earlier than usual. He left his dreams behind, opened his eyes, and sat up. He blinked several times, removed his nightcap, and got out of bed. His body ached as though he’d been running for hours. As he removed his nightclothes, he noticed that his trousers, which were hanging on a chair, were spattered with sludge. There was a strong smell of sewage in the air. Having being cursed with a weak constitution, he waited for the inevitable bile to surge up his throat.

  Nothing happened. Not even a cough.

  He chose another pair of trousers, his favorite shirt, and one of his many vests. It was odd to be getting dressed, since he would normally lounge throughout the morning in his robe and nightclothes, then dress in the afternoon. Nonetheless, he shrugged on his frock coat and selected a top hat.

  As he slipped on his shoes he had an inkling that something was wrong. He thought back to last evening’s meeting of the Young Londoners Exploratory Society. The details were fuzzy. In any case, nothing to bother about, he told himself. It was probably a particularly lively argument over the life span of beetles. He and Prince Albert would often have long discussions into the night over such matters.

  He ran a gold-filigreed ivory comb through his hair and felt some satisfaction when it straightened with a slight curl above his ears. He wasn’t too modest to recognize that he was handsome. He was the son of a lord, after all. At dances he was very popular.

  He carried his hat through the doorway to avoid bashing it on the top of the frame. There was an itch on the side of his neck, but he couldn’t make himself scratch it. How peculiar.

  Oscar walked down the hallway, a continuous row of windows to his left. Outside it was misty, so he couldn’t see London. He felt the chill leaking through the windows. Far too cold to go outside. As he had no plans for the day, he would have Welles bring the Times to the study so he could read it while sipping his tea. The Illustrated London News was also delivered today. He would spend the whole morning reading. First, he would have Cook prepare a boiled egg and toasted bread.

  He was surprised when he turned away from the kitchen, walked into his father’s study, and went straight to the desk. He hadn’t planned on doing that. His fingers found a key hanging under the desktop; his hand unlocked the third drawer down and withdrew his father’s pearl-handled vest-pocket pistol, a tiny death dealer that fired a single .22-caliber bullet. Oscar’s mind had become a flurry of thoughts flapping around like a flock of pigeons, but this had no effect on his actions. He pocketed the pistol.

  Within moments he was outside the house. He felt the door as he closed it and the impact of his feet on the cobblestone path as he walked toward the stables. He was no longer making choices; it was as though his body was moving on its own. He willed his feet to stop, but his legs rose and fell, regardless. The crisp air bit his skin. He tried to lift his arms, but they remained rigid at his sides.

  At the stable a voice called out, resonating in his ears: “Stafford, I must go to the Parliament Buildings.” The voice was familiar and so close. Was there someone following him? He couldn’t turn his head. “Quickly, if you will.” He felt his mouth move, his lips form each syllable. It was his own voice, but the words were not his.

  “Right at it, my lord,” Stafford the footman said. And shortly the carriage was ready, the black horses chugging out plumes of frosty breath. The carriage stopped beside Oscar, and he waited as Stafford got down and opened the door. All the while, Oscar had been screaming inside his head, “Stafford, Stafford, it’s me! It’s me! Stop what you’re doing!” But his lips would not cooperate and Oscar climbed silently into the carriage.

  He rode along, his arms crossed. He heard the voice muttering, “The symbols must fall. The Clockwork Guild sees all.”

  The carriage rattled on. Oscar was bewildered: He was a rider both in the carriage and in his own body. No matter how many times he commanded his hands to open the door or his mouth to call out, nothing happened. His heartbeat was regular and he wasn’t sweating; the panic he felt was all in his head.

  He took a sheet of paper from the breast pocket of his coat. It had an odd, yet familiar insignia: a clockwork inside a triangle. He wrote down seven words: The game begins. The forgotten shall rise. He had no idea what it meant.

  What had happened the night before? It had been a normal meeting, as far as he could remember, but now he did recall being guided down a long corridor sloshing with sewage and, later, being offered a drink. He had refused it. But then he had taken it. Why? The liquid had been familiar; he had tasted it before.

  The carriage stopped on the concourse to the Parliament Buildings and Stafford opened the door. Oscar climbed out, looked left and right. The sun was peeping through the mist. There were clerks bustling about on errands, solicitors waiting for clients, even a few common folk. And several Royal Guards. They recognized him. Oscar nodded to one and strode past them into the building.

  His father’s secretary, Mr. Ackroyd, was in the office sitting behind a mahogany desk piled with neat stacks of paper.

  “Young Mr. Featherstone, to what do we owe this pleasure?” he asked, his pen poised over a document.

  “I must see my father,” the voice said through Oscar’s mouth.

  “Well, he’s in a meeting. He shall be finished in a few minutes.”

  “It is a matter of utmost importance.”

  “And what sort of matter, your lordship?”

  “A private one.”

  Mr. Ackroyd nodded. “Then I shall inform him at once and see whether he can break away from his meeting. Dignitaries from the Fante are visiting. Please wait here.”

  Oscar waited as Mr. Ackroyd slowly climbed a set of stairs. He wanted to yell out, “I’m an imposter! An imposter!” Instead he twiddled his thumbs and there was an odd noise in his ears.

  Humming. He was humming.

  He felt pain in his left thumb. A few moments later he looked down and saw that he had carved bloody lines into it with his fingernail. His other hand withdrew his handkerchief and wrapped up the cuts.

  As though he were looking back through a thin gauze, the cuts triggered images from the previous night. He had met a woman, a very beautiful woman. And a doctor, whom the woman had proclaimed as one of the most brilliant chemical minds of the century. Oscar had hesitated at this; he hadn’t recognized the man’s name.

  The doctor had offered him the elixir. After he’d drank it, the woman had spoken to him, but he felt he wasn’t the only one hearing the message.

  And now he was here. Waiting for his father. Interrupting a meeting that, since Ackroyd had mentioned the Fante, must have to do with South Africa.

  “Oscar!” His father was stamping down the set of winding stairs, his eyes blazing. His broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his suit. He used a walking stick, supporting the leg that had been damaged in Crimea. “Why are you here?”

  “Father.” Oscar was amazed at how hollow his voice sounded. “Father, something very serious has happened.”

  At this, Lord Featherstone raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

  “We must talk alone.” He glanced over at Mr. Ackroyd, who had returned to his desk.

  “Fine. Come. Come.” His father led him up the stairs that wound past a window and to the next floor. The sun lit the stained glass, the shadows making his father look as stern as ever. “This had better be important. I have work to do. You know that.” “Wait, Father.”

  His father stopped. “You’ve injured your hand.” “It’s a trifle, compared to what awaits our enemies.” “Our enemies? What are you at now, son?” “We will strike them right through the heart.” “Oscar. What is this prattle? Are you yourself?” No! Oscar shouted in his head, I am not myself! But his mouth wouldn’t budge. His father was framed by the large glass window.

  “This is for the Clockwork Guild.” Oscar pulled the pistol from his pocket and pointed it at his father. “Oscar
. This is a very stupid joke.” “This is for the future.”

  He pulled the trigger. A click followed. Click. Click. Click.

  His father roared, “What madness is this?” Oscar was much smaller than his father, but he launched himself at him, batted his father’s walking stick aside, and wrapped him up in his arms. The lord’s bad leg collapsed and he fell backward into the window.

  Oscar could only scream in his head as he clutched his father and fell three stories to the ground.

  18

  Murder in the Headlines

  Modo dressed in the fine-threaded clothes Tharpa had selected for him and spent part of the morning in the turret of the house. There was a circular table in the center; the curved walls were lined with complicated bookshelves stuffed with hundreds of books. A quiet male servant fetched toast and an egg. Modo pulled up a chair to the table to eat and read. In a short while, he heard a footstep on the floor and, by the weight, guessed the intruder. “Tharpa,” he said, “what have you brought me?”

  A paper dropped on the table. “Sahib would like you to read this.” As quietly as Tharpa had entered, he was gone.

  Modo wiped the ooze from his eyes with a handkerchief, paying special attention to the one that Hakkandottir had poked. His head still ached; his rib, too. He looked at the paper. On the front page was an illustration of a broken window in the Parliament Buildings. The headline read:

  WAR SECRETARY FALLS TO DEATH, SON INJURED

  HORATIO FEATHERSTONE, 13th Duke of Somerset and current War Secretary, has been murdered this very morning, allegedly at the hands of his own son. Witnesses spoke of hearing a crash and others saw His Grace fall three stories from a window to his death. His son, who fell out the window with him, survived. There is talk of a confrontation between the two.

  More details will follow in tomorrow’s paper.

  Modo set the paper down. Duke Featherstone murdered by his own son?

  The door opened and Mr. Socrates entered, carrying an alligator-skin satchel. “You have read the article, I assume.”

  “Yes, Mr. Socrates. It’s a shame we didn’t know his intentions. I could have stopped him.”

  “But that is the thing. We didn’t gather our information quickly enough. I have failed the War Secretary. Featherstone was a good man.”

  “But why would his son do this?”

  Mr. Socrates sat down at the table. “My guess is that Hakkandottir and Fuhr have somehow manipulated the minds of these young men. But this is beyond any mind-control methods I know of. We are searching for others on that list. However, it seems they have vanished. Including Prince Albert.”

  “Vanished?”

  Mr. Socrates shrugged. “We must assume they are as dangerous as young Featherstone. The prince is the queen’s grandson, and, as you can imagine, this has caused some consternation. But I have other men searching for him. At this point we should concern ourselves with the one man we have in custody. By all accounts Oscar Featherstone had no sympathies for our enemies. Our sources are telling us interesting things. The newspaper does not mention, for example, that he was discovered with a gun. Nor that there was a paper with that odd triangle insignia upon his person. With the words The game begins. The forgotten shall rise, written on it in his handwriting.”

  “What game?” Modo asked.

  “It appears to be an announcement. They are taunting us. And judging by their technology and methods, this is a formidable enemy. Young Mr. Featherstone has, willingly or unwillingly, become part of their plans.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “At the Tower of London. Which is why I’m here. Have you remembered any of the other names on that list?”

  “No,” Modo said, “I—I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry. How are you mending?”

  “I am just a little under the weather, sir,” he lied.

  “Well, I’m afraid this is all the rest I can afford to give you just now. I need you to use your metamorphic skills. And we must act quickly.”

  Mr. Socrates produced a highly rendered portrait from his satchel. It was a Beefeater, posing in his uniform. “You need to take the form of this man. He is Jonathan York, the sergeant at arms at the Tower of London. This will allow you to talk directly to Oscar Featherstone.”

  “But can’t you arrange to talk to him yourself?”

  Mr. Socrates laughed. “Ah, no. The association I belong to is so secret few in the government itself even know that we exist. The Queen has a suspicion, Prime Minister Gladstone, too, but it’s better for them if they don’t know too much.”

  “Does your… our… association have a name?”

  Mr. Socrates let a small grin curve his lips. “Yes.”

  “I see. It’s secret.”

  “The less you know, the better.” He took a step away from the table. “Anyway, tonight the real Mr. York will be sleeping at home, right through his shift. We have arranged for that. You will take his place at the Tower.”

  After he left, Modo breathed deeply. Every inch of his body ached. Now he must force himself into another shape. The only thing worse than the pain of that effort would be his failure to complete the assignment.

  19

  The Tower of London

  Modo was crossing London Bridge dressed in a dark blue, red-trimmed sergeant-at-arms Beefeater uniform, the royal insignia emblazoned across his chest. The Beefeater’s cloak was thick and the uniform smelled of sweat and mothballs. He dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief. He had studied the portrait of Jonathan York and been able to re-create his appearance to Mr. Socrates’ satisfaction, but because of the burns, bits of flesh and skin protruded along his forearms. Tharpa had covered them with another poultice and bandages; then Modo had hidden it all under the long sleeves of his jacket.

  “If anyone asks, tell them you fell at the pub,” Mr. Socrates had said.

  Another difficulty had been the business of growing whiskers. It was the only part of his shape-shifting limited by his age. Until he was older he wouldn’t be able to do it, so Tharpa had attached two muttonchop whiskers to his jowls. They scratched his face and sweat made them stink like dead rats. Modo wondered just what kind of hair the things were made of.

  Modo glanced over the railing at the Thames. The lights of a few boats floated eerily in the water. He’d been on this bridge before, staring down at the children and women—mudlarks—who sifted through the mud at low tide for coal, bits of rope, anything to sell for a penny or two. It was a hard, terrible way to make a living.

  Even though it was nearly half-past eight in the evening, the bridge was crowded with costermongers clutching their baskets of fruits and vegetables, clerks on their way home, and couples dressed to the nines. Top hats bobbed in the crowd. Modo cut through them all. Most stepped aside, respecting the authority of his uniform.

  Once off the bridge, he walked down the street to his destination. The Tower of London was really a collection of towers surrounded by a wall so thick and tall even Modo didn’t think he could scale it. The drawbridge to the Tower of London was down and he entered through the middle tower. Back straight! he told himself. You’re a sergeant at arms. Carry yourself appropriately.

  He marched under the portcullis and into the courtyard without a challenge from either guard. He nodded to both of them, but didn’t speak as he had no idea what York’s voice was like, nor how York would act.

  Modo turned toward the Bell Tower. He’d memorized a map, but with only a few ornamental lights here and there,it was hard to tell where one building ended and another began.

  The cobblestones glistened; a soft rain had fallen earlier. From somewhere nearby, ravens cawed. Modo looked up and spotted the white belfry. The only way to enter the Bell Tower was through the building next door—the Lieutenant’s Lodgings. It looked a little like a large fairytale cabin transported from the mountains. Light shone from one of the second-floor windows, and from most of the windows on the ground floor.

  Two Beefeaters stood
side by side at the main entrance, leaning on their halberds. They straightened up as he approached, so Modo assumed he must outrank them. He intended to barge right between them when one said, “Password, sir.”

  Password? Mr. Socrates had said nothing of passwords. Several possible answers flitted through his mind. Rex? Portcullis? Long live the Queen?

  “You look a little pale, sir,” said the other guard.

  Modo made as if to speak, then coughed heavily. In the hoarsest voice possible, which wasn’t difficult since his lungs were still raw, he said, “Am under the weather.” He spat a gob of mucus at their feet.

  “Rotten luck, sir. But you know the lieutenant’s orders. No one can pass without first saying the password.”

  “My mind is addled at the moment.”

  “I’ll give you an easy one. Where was Anne Boleyn beheaded?”

  Modo tried to control his breathing. Slow, steady, he told himself. She had been King Henry VIII’s second wife—until he’d had her executed. Where did she die? Think, Modo. At Traitor’s Gate? No. Beheadings were sometimes held at Tower Hill, outside the Tower of London. But was that where Anne Boleyn had met her end? If only he’d read his history more carefully.

  One of the guards was leering suspiciously. He was a hulking brute, head big as a bucket. His nose had been broken at least once. Moments earlier the fellow’s eyes had regarded him respectfully. Was he taking a second look at the sideburns?

  “You’d better give me an answer, sir,” the guard said.

  Modo hacked again, produced another phlegmy black wad, and spat it past the nearest guard’s nose, hitting the wall. The guard stepped back. “Where was Anne Boleyn beheaded?” Modo repeated, trying to make it sound like a joke. It was worth a try! “Right below her chin.”

  “That’s right!” The men laughed. “You were playing with us, weren’t you, sir? A cat and two field mice.”

  Modo nodded. They stepped apart and he entered, turning back, still smiling. “Just one question,” he asked. “Where is Featherstone imprisoned?”