by Arthur Slade
“You’re the one who took him to his cell, sir,” said one.
Modo cringed a little. “Yes, of course. I wanted to be sure he hasn’t been moved.”
“He’s still in the west cellblock, sir. Only place he could be, really.”
“Don’t be flippant!” Modo snapped, as harshly as he could. Their smiles vanished.
“Yes, Sergeant. Sorry, Sergeant.”
He marched into the lodging, turning in what he hoped was the right direction. He was heading west, at least. He slammed through a white door and came upon a hallway. On two occasions he hit dead ends and had to backtrack. He passed a servant, but pretended she didn’t exist, assuming York would have done the same.
He found a heavy door, opened it. Judging by the stone walls, he was inside the Bell Tower itself. Maybe Anne Boleyn’s ghost still lingered here.
He followed another hallway until he came to a thick iron door. With great effort he pushed it open. Inside, a man sat behind a small oak table. Modo recognized him by his uniform: the chief warder, a dough-fleshed man with a bulbous jaw set in a collar of fat.
“You’re tardy, York,” the man grumbled.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“I’ll be late for my dinner. I don’t like cold eel.”
“I won’t be late again, sir. I promise.”
The chief warder stood and handed the keys to Modo. “The prisoners are in your charge. Mayhew will be here at four bells.”
After the man left, Modo waited several seconds, then lowered a wooden bar across the door. At the table he flipped through the large record book. It was filled with details about the prisoners’ meals and visitors but nothing that explained where Featherstone was held. The only thing Modo could do was to look for him. He picked up the keys and unlocked the door into the cells, discovering a short, torch-lit tunnel and six doors, each with a slot for passing through food.
He listened. At first he heard a mewing sound, something like the barn cat that Mrs. Finchley would allow into the house for him to pet. Modo crept from door to door, listening at each until he heard someone sobbing.
“Oscar Featherstone?” Modo said.
The weeping stopped. Chains rattled. “Y-Yes.”
Modo tried several keys until the lock clicked. He pushed the door open. By the flickering light of the tunnel’s torches, he saw a man sitting on a bed of old straw and leaning against the stone wall.
Modo took a few steps into the fetid chamber. The young man’s eyes were glinting with tears and he was shaking. His fancy clothes were muddy and his head bandaged. “Mr. Featherstone, I have a message from …” Who would send him a message? The Queen? “… your mother.”
“You’ve seen Mum?”
“No. I received a missive from her. She’s convinced you are innocent.”
“But I did do it. That’s the thing. I killed my own father!”
Modo wondered about the fellow’s state of mind. He’d be hanged all the sooner if he kept shouting out his guilt. “But was it your fault? That’s another question. Were you coerced? Had you been drinking spirits? Your mother has paid me to get information to give your lawyers.”
“I—I was under some kind of influence.”
Modo edged a little closer. “What do you mean?”
“I was drugged.”
“Was it Fuhr who drugged you?”
“You know Mr. Fuhr?”
“The lawyers mentioned him,” Modo lied.
“I—I think you’re right. I don’t know. I have vague images, memories. I’m a member of the Young Londoners Exploratory Society. I joined because I have a great interest in scientific theories. We had meetings every week. I remember drinking a liquid from a flask; it burned my throat. It was given to me by a doctor.”
“A doctor? What was his name?”
“Name? Corn. Cornelius. That was it. Cornelius.” Oscar laughed. Modo wondered if he was going mad.
“And his last name?”
“Hyde,” Oscar said.
“And what was in the flask?”
“A tincture. It wasn’t the first time I’d had it, but it was the first time I did something terrible afterward.” He pressed his hands to his temples and the chains rubbed against his face.
“Can you explain what it did to you?”
“I—I was two people, myself and someone else. And that other person inside me was very angry. I could feel him boiling with it. A woman spoke to me at a meeting last night, but I didn’t say anything back. It doesn’t make sense.” He struck himself such a blow on the head that Modo shuddered. “No sense. No sense. Nonsense!”
Modo put his hand on Oscar’s shoulder and spoke softly. “I know this is a hard time. I feel so sorry for you. But please calm yourself. Much of what you are saying does make sense.”
“It does?”
“Yes. It makes perfect sense,” Modo offered, quickly, though he wasn’t certain he was telling the truth. “Please give me any details you can remember. What did this woman say to you?”
“I don’t know. Not exactly. She asked me questions, I think. And read something from a sheet of paper.”
“What was it about?”
“I cannot remember. Obviously, I followed her instructions, though. That’s the only explanation I have for my attack on my father.”
“What did she look like?”
“She had red hair.”
Hakkandottir. She told them what to do and they had to follow her commands. So she was at the bottom of it!
“What happened next?”
“I’m not sure. I went home, went to sleep, and when I woke up I no longer controlled my body. I went to Parliament. That other side of me was so angry! I spoke to my father, but they weren’t my words. I—I murdered him.”
“You mustn’t blame yourself.”
“I must! I didn’t do the act, and yet, I did do it.” He rattled his chains. “I saw him, broken, under me. I had control of my mind again, my body. The voices of the Clockwork Guild left me, soon after. All I could do was weep.”
“You see, it’s not your fault. You would never have done this had you been in your right mind.”
“Do you think that’s true?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. But I need you to answer a question. You mentioned the Clockwork Guild; what is it?”
“I have phrases burned into my mind. The symbols must fall, the Clockwork Guild sees all. They constantly repeat in the back of my mind.”
“Mr. Featherstone, it’s likely there is a scientific reason for your actions. It has to do with how these people have taken over your interior life. We’ll do our best to help you prove your innocence.”
“Please tell my mother. Tell her it wasn’t me. It was that tincture.”
Modo pitied him. Featherstone had innocently imagined that through the Young Londoners Exploratory Society he’d be studying science and conducting experiments. Instead he himself had become the experiment, a murderous experiment at that. “You must think carefully. Where did these events occur?”
“We were led to a chamber. At least, I think we were.”
“All of you?”
“I don’t know.”
“If we can discover the place where you were experimented on, we can find your father’s true murderers.”
Featherstone put his hands to his head and closed his eyes. “We went down. It was like descending into Hades.”
“Where?”
“It was an abominable place, that’s all I remember.”
Modo could see he wouldn’t get the answer he needed just now. “Then tell me please, who were your companions? You must understand they are in danger too.”
Oscar’s shaking and shivering worsened. “Mmm … there was Roderick Yarrow, Charles Boon, Richard Cournet, Michael Eccarius, and … and …”
“That’s only four. I need to know all eight!”
“Yes, yes, eight of us. That leaves three. Nixon Hales, Henry Glyn, and, of course, Albert of Saxe-Coburg. My dear friend.”
Modo ran the names through his mind again to be certain he would remember them. “Did this red-haired woman give them orders also?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about Prince Albert? Do you know where he is?”
“At the palace, of course.”
“I’m sorry to tell you he’s not.”
“Is he lost?”
“No, no,” Modo said quickly, seeing that Oscar was about to burst into tears. “He’s safe.”
Oscar slumped forward, his head between his knees, and sobbed. “I’ll be hanged, won’t I?”
“No! I’ll do everything in my power to prove your innocence. I promise. You are not responsible for the murder of your father. Remember that, Mr. Featherstone.”
A thud against the main door echoed in the cell. “Open up at once!” someone shouted from outside.
“I must go.” Modo closed the cell door and ran to the jailer’s room. No windows. No escape.
“Open up!” The gruff shout was followed by another blow to the door.
“I will! I will,” Modo yelled. With no place to hide, he’d have to talk his way out.
He pushed up the giant latch and the door swung open, slamming against the wall. A Beefeater entered, aiming a pistol at Modo. He looked familiar. York!
The moment York saw his own face staring back at him, he lowered the gun. “My lord!”
The two Beefeaters behind him, their halberds at the ready, were equally gobsmacked.
“Who is this imposter?” Modo demanded.
No one moved. York’s eyelids drooped. Whatever Mr. Socrates’ agents had given him had not yet worn off.
“You! You are the imposter.” York raised his pistol, but Modo smacked it away.
“See! He’s the faker!” He pulled on York’s muttonchops, yanking him down to the floor. Modo rammed into the Beefeaters, bowling them over, and scrambled down the hall.
He heard a shot as he turned a corner—the bullet bounced off the stone wall behind him with a loud ping. He couldn’t remember the way out. He came to stone stairs, and having no other way to go, charged up them, shouts and footsteps close behind him.
He leapt through a window, using his left arm to block his face from the glass as his right hand grabbed a ledge. He jerked to a stop and for a moment hung over the ledge. His arm was weak and his hand was growing slippery with blood, having been cut on the broken window. Modo swung his legs onto the ledge, straightened, and forced himself to clamber several feet up the jutting stones on the wall to the top of the Bell Tower. He crouched in the shadow of the belfry, to gather his thoughts. For some moments the courtyard below was quiet.
Then, right next to him, the bells rang out, their terrific clang clang clang nearly knocking him over the wall. A clamor rose in the courtyard. He peered down to see men running this way and that, yelling to one another. Then he heard the portcullis at the front gate clank shut.
Eventually they would search the rooftops. Better to run now, especially while he had the advantage of the dark. He dashed across the tower and jumped down onto the Lieutenant’s Lodgings, bounding along its pitched roof.
He jumped to Bloody Tower, just catching the very edge of the top of one wall. By now all the gates would be closed. He tried to dream up a way to scale the walls that surrounded the tower. Impossible, he realized.
Then Modo remembered Anne Boleyn and was inspired anew. He found a window on the tower and climbed down to it, forcing it open and slipping into the room, tangling en route with a tall candelabrum. He passed through the door, followed a narrow hallway, and stumbled down a spiral staircase, hiding his bloody hand as he twice passed guards. With luck and a couple of good guesses, he came across the stone steps that Anne Boleyn herself would have walked, the steps to Traitor’s Gate, the only water entrance to the tower.
Two Beefeaters stood next to a boat, guarding an open gate. Modo ran down the steps, shouting, “He’s just inside the tower! That way! I’ll close the gate.” They ran up the steps past him. When they were out of sight, he plopped himself in the boat, grabbed an oar, and pushed his way out past the gate, smiling broadly over how easy it had been.
But then he looked down at the water, suddenly afraid. He couldn’t swim. He paddled hard to the edge of the moat, jumped from the boat, and climbed up the bank to the street.
Minutes later Modo was charging down St. Katharine’s Way and onto Irongate Wharf. He hid behind a large crate and tore off the vest, cloak, and uniform. Underneath he wore his thin street clothes, not quite warm enough for the cold night. He shivered uncontrollably; his hand was now covered with blood. At least he wasn’t so obviously a Beefeater. He reversed the cloak so that none of the insignia showed, and threw it around his shoulders. Finally, he ripped the muttonchops from his face and dropped them, along with the vest and uniform, into the Thames.
Voices cut through the fog and loud footsteps echoed on the wharf, so Modo stayed perfectly still, except for his chattering teeth. He waited for fifteen minutes, and when there was no indication he was in danger of being pursued, he crossed the street, shimmied up a column on one of the warehouses, and climbed, hand over hand, up a six-story brick building, grateful that the cast-iron window frames were so strong. On the roof he began to run, relieved to be out of sight. He would work his way west and cross the Thames at Blackfriars Bridge. The Tower bells of London rang softly in the distance.
20
The Association
Modo wheezed his way down the driveway to Mr. Socrates’ mansion, past a row of silver-plated lamps embellished with dolphins. Even at night, it was obvious why it was called Towerhouse: The mansion’s four-story turret loomed over the estate.
With each step Modo clutched his chest harder; his broken rib was on fire. He staggered, latched onto one of the lampposts, and rested against it. He wiped his forehead and discovered clumps of hair stuck in his sweat. Bumps were appearing on his face, but he had no way to hide them. He hoped he wouldn’t frighten Mr. Socrates’ servants.
He pulled up his scarf and staggered to the stone wall surrounding the house. Lights were on, even at this late hour. He pushed the iron gate open.
“Halt!” a voice commanded.
Two large men in greatcoats ran at him out of the darkness, one pointing a pistol. They stopped a good five yards back, unsure of what, or whom, they were dealing with. Modo kept his face turned from the lamplight.
“What’s your business?” the one with the pistol asked.
“To see Mr. Socrates. I’m in his employ.”
“Oh?” The pistol remained. “And we’re supposed to take your word for that?”
“It’s the truth.” Modo coughed.
“We weren’t told to expect guests,” the other man said, walking up to him. “Let’s get a good look at you.” He grabbed Modo’s shoulder, yanking him into the light. They were hardened men with scarred faces, but they both recoiled in disgust.
“My God!” gasped the one holding Modo’s shoulder. “What hit you?”
“Nothing!” Modo was tempted to break the man’s nose. “Nothing.”
“Release him!” Modo recognized the voice and soon Tharpa was striding down the path. “Return to your posts.”
“We don’t take orders from you, wallah.”
Tharpa stepped up, broke the man’s grip on Modo with a subtle flick of his wrist. The man groaned and pulled back his arm as though stung. “Next time listen to the wallah,” Tharpa said to the men as he guided Modo toward Towerhouse.
“Thank you,” Modo whispered.
“They see the color of my face and they make judgments. We are not so different, you and I.”
Modo managed a little grin.
Tharpa patted his shoulder. “You do not look your best, young sahib.”
“I’m very tired.”
“Well, you have one more task tonight, I’m sorry to say.” Tharpa led him into the house and closed the door. He brought a mask out from under a scarf on the hat shelf. “You wi
ll want to wear this.” Modo took the mask and put it on. With a firm hand on Modo’s back, Tharpa brought him into the dining room, whispering, “All the sahibs are here tonight.”
Mr. Socrates was leaning over a map on the long teak table. Down either side of it sat five well turned out older men, buttons gleaming, cravats perfectly pressed. At the far end was a dark-haired woman in an emerald-green dress. Smoke stung Modo’s eyes and he stifled a cough. Three of the men cupped pipes, while the woman’s spidery fingers held a long retractable cigarette holder. The table was set with wine goblets, grapes, dinner rolls, and sweet biscuits, and littered with papers and maps. The gentlemen’s top hats sat along a shelf behind them.
Mr. Socrates looked up, his face drawn with exhaustion. “Ah, my agent has returned. Step up. My associates would like to hear what you’ve discovered.”
They were an intimidating lot, intelligent eyes set into faces that revealed their years and, Modo guessed, worldly experience. Since Mr. Socrates had only referred to him as “his agent,” Modo realized his master didn’t want them to know too much about him. “I—I went to the Tower.” Modo scratched nervously at the side of his neck. “Wh-Who are these people, Mr. Socrates?”
“My interests are their interests. You may speak freely.”
“Oh. I see.” Modo cleared his throat. He felt naked under their penetrating gazes. “I entered the Tower of London as you requested, sir, and interviewed Mr. Oscar Featherstone.”
“What details did he provide?”
“He claims he didn’t have control of himself when he committed the murder. He’d been given a tincture and it … it divided his mind in two. Miss Hakkandottir seems to have planted instructions in that second part of his … his self, if that makes any sense, sir.”
“Sense?” a gentleman echoed. He was hunched over, and with his short gray hair and glasses, he reminded Modo of an unblinking owl. He was maybe forty years old, his vest was brown, and, with a shock, Modo noticed that his right hand was withered, only half the size of his left. Modo couldn’t help staring at it, until a pang of shame hit him. This was, after all, how others always reacted to his own disfigurement and he hated it. “This suggests personality separation,” the man continued. “Did he say who created this tincture?”
