Empire of Ruins

by Arthur Slade

  “I’m to interview a prisoner there who goes by the name 376. Odd name, isn’t it?”

  She laughed. “Well, it sounds like a curious mission, but at least a safe one.”

  “Safe? Among mental degenerates?”

  “I know,” she said softly. “I’ve visited Bedlam more than once myself.”

  Modo was about to ask, “Whom did you visit?” when a thought struck him: Had she been an inmate? He thought of her son dying at a young age, of her sometimes frightened look. No, no. It couldn’t be.

  “I can only say that the unfortunates there are treated more kindly now than they used to be,” she said. “In the not-so-distant past they were chained to the walls, their various madnesses on display for curious tourists.”

  “That sounds horrible.” Modo pictured his own infancy in a cage, part of a traveling freak show. Of course, he had no memories of his first year, but Mr. Socrates had described it to him often enough that he had no trouble imagining it. Had they chained him up?

  Footman knocked and entered with a steamer trunk. He set it on the floor, then bowed before exiting.

  On the trunk’s side was the name HUNTSMAN & SONS. Mr. Socrates’ favorite tailors. Inside, Modo discovered a neatly pressed frock coat, a top hat, and a doctor’s bag, complete with several instruments and a magnifying glass.

  “Mr. Socrates always has things planned to a T,” Mrs. Finchley said. “Don’t delay, Modo. Get dressed and we shall begin. I’ll need a pencil and paper. I’ll draw you a new face.”

  She put her hand on his shoulder. “We both know Mr. Socrates didn’t reunite us for our own happiness. He sent me here for a reason.” She gave his shoulder a good squeeze. “Whatever the reason, I’m glad of it. I have missed you.”

  Into Bedlam

  The horses snorted as the hansom cab came to a stop at the Lambeth Road entrance to Bethlem Hospital. Modo stepped out onto the cobblestones, walking stick in hand. He paid the driver, then strode to the iron gate. His frock coat was of the finest quality, his top hat fit perfectly—he’d adjusted the size of his head to the hat—and the walking stick was adorned with a gold-plated lion’s head. He exuded confidence; the fashionable cut of his suit helped straighten his spine. And he held his doctor’s bag with authority, just as Mrs. Finchley had instructed.

  The hospital was larger than Modo had imagined it would be, the dome cutting into the sky. The Greek columns contributed to the building’s majesty. As he approached the gate he could see the true length and breadth of the hospital. Were there really so many people in the city and countryside inflicted with insanity that they filled this huge hospital?

  He rapped on the gate with his stick, and a guard in a black uniform stepped out of a booth, carrying a ledger. Modo could see a holstered pistol just inside his jacket. Was the pistol to keep visitors out, or the inmates in?

  “Morning, sir,” the guard said.

  He looked to be no more than twenty. That gave Modo some comfort; the young man might be easier to manipulate. He took a deep breath and put on his most authentic voice. “I am Dr. Jonathan Reeve. I have an appointment to see Prisoner 376.”

  The guard examined his ledger. “I don’t seem to have your name on the list, sir.”

  Modo tapped on the gate hard enough that the guard edged back. “Now hear this! I won’t suffer any more bureaucratic buffoonery. Do you want me to report you to your employers? It was very difficult to arrange this appointment. I’m a busy man! Are you telling me the office didn’t send word of my visit? Look again! I’m Dr. Jonathan Reeve of the Humanities Institute.”

  The guard studied the list again, his hand shaking. “You aren’t listed, sir,” he said quietly. “There must have been a mix-up.” He pulled out a key and unlocked the gate, swinging it wide enough for Modo to walk through. “I’m sure the proper papers will arrive with the afternoon post, Dr. Reeve. I apologize for the mistake, sir.”

  “Tut-tut, my man! Speak no more of it.”

  With that, Modo brushed past and marched down the main walk that split the brilliant green lawn, his walking stick under his arm. Men played croquet in groups while women with fancy hats looked on. What form of insanity had struck them?

  He passed through the front doors and glanced down a long hallway. Milling about were several men in various types of dress, from dressing gowns to proper suits. He’d expected clamor and frenzy, but it all looked rather civilized. Well, except the dressing gowns.

  Then one gentleman turned to face him. The hair on half his head had been shaved off completely and one cheek was red with blood. Modo sucked in a sharp breath, then realized the “blood” was, in fact, a bright rouge.

  A broad-shouldered matron in a gray dress approached him. She wore a tight cravat around her neck, her jowls dangling over it. Her large hands were callused and a key ring hung from her belt.

  “May I help you?” she asked curtly.

  “I’m here to see a prisoner.”

  “We have no prisoners, sir. The prison wings were demolished years ago.”

  Modo was taken aback for a minute; then he collected himself. “Ah, well, that’s rather peculiar, since I’m here to see Prisoner 376.”

  She frowned. “And you are?”

  “Dr. Jonathan Reeve,” he said, in a slightly haughty tone. “I’m from the Institute.”

  She nodded. “I see, Dr. Reeve. We weren’t expecting any more inspectors. Please come along.”

  She led him through several corridors, her keys jangling as she walked. Every few feet a door opened to a room, and Modo couldn’t resist looking in. In one, a man was painting bright orange cats on the wall. In another, a short bald man was playing a violin while two nurses clapped along to encourage him. The tune stuck in Modo’s ears; he had heard very little music while growing up in Ravenscroft, other than Mrs. Finchley’s singing, so music always sounded as if it were coming from another world.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked.

  “This is your first visit to Bethlem Hospital?”

  “Yes. Though not my first visit to this type of asylum, of course.”

  “Well, it’s not entirely true that we are rid of the prison section. We did keep a few—how shall I put it—private cells.”

  “Private? For the rich?”

  “For those our government deems to be of interest.”

  They turned a corner to find a soldier standing by a metal door. A scar cut across his left cheek, and he showed no sign of having smiled in his lifetime. He had a corporal’s chevrons on his right arm.

  “Greetings, Mrs. Hardy. Sir.”

  “I’m Dr. Jonathan Reeve,” Modo said. “I’ve come to see Prisoner 376.”

  “No disrespect, Doctor, but if I haven’t been forewarned about your visit, I cannot let you inside. Do you have the required documentation?”

  “Documentation?” Modo asked. Why hadn’t Mr. Socrates given him more specific information? Now he would have to find some other way to see the prisoner. Could he break in? Knock the soldier out? But what to do with the matron? She was standing with her arms crossed as if she had already started to doubt he really was a doctor. “I do have papers.”

  Modo searched through his doctor’s bag, thinking fast. During his spare time at Safe House he had gone through boxes of military records. Mr. Socrates had given them to him so he’d understand more thoroughly how the army was organized, and who the important people were in the chain of command. He thought of the Secretary of State for War, but any half-literate bumpkin would know it was Gathorne Hardy, first earl of Cranbrook. Modo tried to bring all the names to mind. Generals, major generals, colonels. He’d memorized the names of officers in several different regiments. Whom would this soldier report to directly?

  “Sir, do you have papers?”

  Modo breathed in, then sighed. “They are misplaced.” As he was about to give the guard a quick palm strike to the jaw, he glanced at the badge on his chest. The corporal was with the Queen’s Own Cameron Highlanders! Aha!
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  “Captain Brooks would not be pleased to know there’d been a delay in my visit. This is a most urgent interview.”

  The man’s eyes widened. “The captain sent you?”

  Modo stood taller. “Of course! It’s not as though I could steal the prisoner from under your nose. You have a choice: turn me away and face your captain’s wrath or let me pass. Which will it be?”

  “You may go in, sir.” The corporal opened the door to a dark hallway.

  “Thank you, Corporal,” Modo said. He stepped through the door with all the authority he could muster.

  “To the left,” the matron instructed, moving past Modo and leading him down a narrow corridor. Dim gas lamps hung every ten feet or so.

  “Would you like the patient manacled?” she asked.

  “I don’t believe in manacles.”

  She shrugged her immense shoulders. “It’s your choice, of course.” She stopped at a large oak door and squinted through a spyhole. “He seems to be sleeping. I recommend you keep your distance from him, sir. There’s a bell inside to the left of the door. Ring it when you want to leave. If he becomes violent, ring it vigorously. Corporal Salton will get to you as quickly as possible.”

  Modo wished he knew how strong the prisoner was.

  “I understand,” he said as she unlocked the door with one of her many keys.

  It squeaked as she pulled it open, and Modo couldn’t stop his muscles from tensing.

  A man was lying on a bare cot, his head and body wrapped so tightly in a white sheet that he looked like an Egyptian mummy. One arm had been left uncovered.

  “His name is Alexander King,” the matron said as Modo entered. “He will occasionally answer to it.”

  She closed the door with a solid thunk.

  Modo glanced around the room, noting the details. A gaslight hung from the high ceiling, well out of reach. A barred oval window was situated at the top of the north wall. Below it, drawn in dark red, were neat rows of hieroglyphics. In the patient’s own blood?

  “Good afternoon,” Modo said.

  The man didn’t stir.

  “Mr. King. Are you awake?”

  No reaction. Was he breathing? A second later the patient’s chest rose slightly.

  “Mr. King. I am Dr. Reeve and I’m here to ask you several questions. I would appreciate your answers.” Modo had no clue what those questions would be. He knew nothing about King. Mr. Socrates was testing him, no doubt. Obviously King was a criminal; an insane criminal, no less. But what had he done? Start with that.

  “Could you tell me your occupation?”

  He made no sound. The sheets had been so tightly wound around his face that Modo wondered that he could breathe at all.

  “Mr. King, I would appreciate your cooperation. What is your occupation?”

  King’s right arm, a palsied limb, rose and his fingers touched his own sheet-covered face. His forearm, Modo noted, was still slightly tanned, but his upper arm was pale as alabaster.

  “Ah, Mr. King, you are awake.”

  The man was small and wiry and looked to have been athletic before his incarceration. Modo walked over to the end of the bed. He could likely restrain King easily enough, but he had read about the surprising strength of deranged people. Better to keep his distance.

  “Mr. King, can you hear my questions? Please nod if you do.”

  King continued to stroke his face, as though exploring it for the first time. The action reminded Modo of his own habit of feeling his face, in the vain hope it wouldn’t be so ugly. Modo couldn’t make out any of King’s features through the sheet, other than his nose.

  “Why do you touch your face?” Modo asked.

  The hand froze. King suddenly sat up, giving Modo a start. From behind the sheet, he said, “I have no face.” He had a vague colonial accent.

  “But you can hear me?”

  “I have no ears.”

  What was he playing at? Modo could see the outlines of the man’s ears through the cloth.

  “Well, where did they go?” Modo said, humoring him.

  “No eyes,” King continued. “No nose. No mouth. No tongue. No brain. No thoughts. No me.”

  “Then whom am I speaking to?”

  “The mountain keen, the forest green, the God Face burns inside.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “The west at your spine, the face divine. Through the doorway go, beneath the Horus stone. The face it waits, it waits, it waits!” He was scratching at his own face through the sheets so hard that Modo worried he’d gouge out his eyes.

  “Mr. King, please control yourself!”

  Then King began to slap and punch his own head, and Modo grabbed the man’s arms. It took all his strength to hold the prisoner. King struggled so fiercely that the sheet began to unravel.

  He’d been shaved bald. His face was painted red, but there were gouges all along his cheeks. His luminous eyes shone with cold anger.

  “Never touch a god.”

  He shoved Modo so hard that he flew back against the wall. King frantically wrapped the sheet around himself, then lay there, shaking and trembling, on the bed. After several moments, he became still.

  Modo pressed his back to the wall and rang the bell. Within seconds the matron opened the door, and Modo joined her in the hall as the door clunked shut behind him.

  “A hard case,” he said.

  The matron nodded. “Hopeless, they say.”

  The Funeral

  Octavia groaned as yet another diplomat stood up to praise the life of Dr. David Livingstone. If she had known that Mr. Socrates was sending her to such a long and numbingly humdrum funeral, she would have stayed in her room at the Ivory reading A Tale of Two Cities, a book full of guillotines and such that kept her entertained. Instead, she was sitting ramrod straight on a pew in Westminster Abbey, which was packed to the rafters with mourners. She guessed that nearly every bloated aristocrat of English society was sharing the air with her, and half of them seemed to have a Scottish accent.

  The achievements of Dr. Livingstone were certainly impressive; each speaker described the explorer’s many incredible discoveries in Africa. She would have been amazed to meet the man while he was living and breathing, but now that he was dead he was rather a bore.

  She passed the time by glancing around the crowd through her veil, a handy tool for such covert surveillance. Was Modo here? He could be any one of the gentlemen in the pews or extra wooden chairs; he could be watching her at this very moment, which gave her slight tingle, but also angered her. It meant he always had the upper hand, could sneak up on her, even spy on her. By some magic he was able to change the appearance of his face. Which was his real face; who was he?

  Still, she missed him. Mr. Socrates’ policy of not allowing his agents to have contact between missions was so annoying. Next time they worked together she would find a way for them to meet behind their master’s back.

  Octavia huffed out her exasperation and continued to observe the crowd. She was unimpressed by the women’s dresses, all black as crows. She herself had on a black crepe dress with a plain collar, and her hair was tucked under a widow’s cap. Her hat, though, featured a purple band around the crown, making it stand out. If anyone asked, she would say it was Uncle Livingstone’s favorite color, and sniff and sob toward the casket.

  Through it all she feigned sadness. The funeral eventually ended and a gentleman threw a palm branch into the grave as a final act of respect. Livingstone had done well enough to be buried right in the church alongside kings and queens. She heard a portly man in the pew ahead of her whisper, “For a Scotsman he was a fine Englishman.”

  The mourners shuffled out of the church, off to tea parties or to watch cricket matches, Octavia imagined. She salivated. Tea and a sandwich would be wonderful right now, but she had work to do. Her stomach would have to wait.

  She found a dark corner near a pillar and pretended to be silently mourning. She ran through her orders again, not that there was much
to them. The letter that had explained this assignment had said only to attend the funeral and wear a purple ribbon on her black hat. She would be approached by an operative, who would exchange information with her and in return receive the cash that accompanied the letter. Just another errand for Mr. Socrates.

  She couldn’t help but gaze in awe at the beauty of Westminster Abbey: the stained-glass windows, the buttresses rising into the air as though holding up the heavens. Kings and queens had been crowned here. Even fat ol’ Henry VIII.

  A clicking could be heard near the balcony and she glanced toward it. No one. Probably some priest locking up the wine. She wandered through the nave of the church and was drawn to a small marble statue of a man lounging on a couch, leaning on a stack of books. Above him was a marble globe. According to Mr. Socrates, that was the shape of the earth. She was dubious. If the earth was round instead of flat, why didn’t people fall off? She read what she could of the epitaph. By Jove, it was the grave of Isaac Newton. Admirable resting place for a man who was famous for an apple smacking his head.

  There were still several men in robes attending to their duties, and a few other mourners or visitors in the church, but no one was at Dr. Livingstone’s grave. Why not pay him final respects? she thought. She approached and read the words on the marble slab:

  FOR 30 YEARS HIS LIFE WAS SPENT

  IN AN UNWEARIED EFFORT

  TO EVANGELIZE THE NATIVE RACES,

  TO EXPLORE THE UNDISCOVERED SECRETS …

  She stopped. Some of the words were hard and she had to work at remembering what they meant. Octavia hadn’t learned to read until she came to work for Mr. Socrates. They’d met when she tried to pick his pocket and instead of turning her in to the law, he offered her employment as a spy.

  But she knew what evangelize meant. The headmistress at her orphanage had done a lot of that. So Livingstone had been a priestly type too. Or at least fancied himself one. What did all the African tribes think of these English explorers? Why didn’t the savages just boil them all up and eat them for dinner? Maybe English fat didn’t taste good. She giggled to herself.