Empire of Ruins

by Arthur Slade

  Modo pictured Mr. Socrates in an icy grave and a sharp pain touched his heart. What would become of him when his master died?

  “And did you have a productive visit with Mrs. Finchley?” Mr. Socrates asked after they had rumbled a few more blocks.

  “I did, sir.”

  “It wasn’t a lot of time, but I hope she was able to sharpen your acting chops.”

  “She was, sir. Thank you for letting me see her again.” He stared at the top of his cane. After thirteen years spent raising Modo, Mrs. Finchley had been ripped out of his life by Mr. Socrates. Admittedly, it had toughened Modo, but the fact that he hadn’t been allowed to see his beloved Mrs. Finchley in such a long time made him burn with outrage.

  Mr. Socrates drummed his fingers on top of his hat. “Don’t thank me for that. I don’t appreciate sentimentality in my agents. If I had known you were becoming so attached I wouldn’t have allowed you to work with her again.”

  “Yes, Mr. Socrates,” Modo said. It took all his acting skills to hide his resentment.

  When the carriage pulled up to the front of Victor House, they climbed out and Mr. Socrates set a quick pace through the iron gates and across the yard. Modo, a halfstep behind, tapped the shield on the statue of Mars that guarded the property. He believed it would bring him good luck, plus he felt daring in showing superstition in Mr. Socrates’ presence.

  The door to the house opened and Tharpa nodded to them. He was dressed in tan trousers, a tan kurta that hung partway down his thigh, and a white turban. Modo nearly rubbed his hands with glee. He finally had the chance to put one over on his martial arts trainer; Tharpa had not seen Modo in his latest face.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Socrates,” Tharpa said, pausing to look directly at Modo, “and good afternoon to you, young sahib.”

  “How did you know it was me?” Modo squeaked.

  “You have a certain smell,” Tharpa answered. “And I knew you would be traveling with Mr. Socrates.”

  Of course! Modo cursed his shortsighted thinking.

  “Always examine the most obvious answer first, Modo,” Mr. Socrates said with the same tone he used to impart any lesson. “Any news, Tharpa?”

  “Yes. News in the form of Miss Milkweed. She is waiting in the study.” He stepped aside so they could enter, then closed the heavy door behind them.

  Octavia! Modo was glad for his extra acting lessons. He pretended he hadn’t noticed her name and tried to ignore his rapid heartbeat. As he followed Mr. Socrates into the study, he checked his buttons and made certain his cravat was straight. He adjusted the chain of his watch so that it hung from his pocket in a perfect U.

  “Ah, Miss Milkweed, I see you’ve made yourself at home,” Mr. Socrates said.

  Octavia was wearing a black dress and seated in a red velvet chair, a book in her hand. It looked as though the bottom portion of her dress had been torn. Her ankles and the lower half of her calves were visible, and her feet were buried in a dark fur rug. Leather shoes rested next to the chair. A teacup sat on the small table beside her. It had been four months since Modo laid eyes on her. And all he could do was try not to stare at her legs!

  “Yes. It’s good to see you, sir,” Octavia said. “Will you introduce me to your companion?”

  Modo laughed to himself.

  “Of course,” Mr. Socrates answered. “This is Dr. Jonathan Reeve. He’s in the employ of our Association.”

  “At your service,” Modo said, and bowed with exaggerated courtesy.

  “Oh, a doctor!” Octavia exclaimed, brushing a loose curl from her eyes. “It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you.”

  The way she spoke took Modo aback. Was she flirting with him? Did she flirt like this with all men? How many doctors did she know, anyway?

  “I’m pleased to be at your service,” Modo said.

  “You’re repeating yourself,” she said smartly, and gave him a wink.

  A wink! Modo nearly snapped his walking stick in two. She was flirting!

  “Come, sit at the table, Octavia,” Mr. Socrates said. “We have much to discuss. And do cover up your legs and put your shoes on; you may not be a real lady, but that’s no excuse for such vulgarity.”

  “Ah, but me feet ache so, Mr. Socrates. Perhaps the doctor could soothe them with some rubbing lotion.”

  Modo swallowed as he pulled out a chair at the table. He didn’t dare look at her. Then it dawned on him why Mr. Socrates hadn’t revealed Modo’s true identity. This was another test of his acting abilities! Well, Modo would show him. And her!

  Octavia, after making a show of putting on her shoes, wrapping a blanket around her legs, and muttering under her breath, brought her cup of tea to the table. “Is the good doctor to be part of our meeting?” She sat down with them.

  “You may speak freely in front of Dr. Reeve,” Mr. Socrates said. “He’s a trusted associate and an integral part of our Association.”

  Was Mr. Socrates actually complimenting him now? The Permanent Association included some of the most powerful people in all of Britannia. Or was the compliment just part of the ruse?

  “I would appreciate your report, Miss Milkweed,” Mr. Socrates said.

  “First off,” she said, “sir, in the future, could you indicate in your instructions that my life may be at risk?”

  “But that should be presumed. Stop delaying and tell us what you found.”

  “Well, Dr. Livingstone is still dead.” Octavia scratched the back of her neck.

  “One would expect such, since he has been dead for nearly a year, not to mention the fact that he was missing his heart.”

  “He was?” Modo said, imagining the gruesome dissection.

  “Ah, didn’t you read that in the papers, Dr. Reeve? When he died in Africa the tribe he’d been staying with at first refused to give up his body. After some persuasion, his two servants carried it in a coffin for nine months, to a port. The authorities there opened the coffin to discover that his heart had been cut out by his tribe. A note had been tucked under his arm. It said, ‘You can have his body, but his heart belongs in Africa.’ Apparently, they buried his heart under a mvula tree.”

  “How savage!” Octavia said.

  Mr. Socrates shrugged. “I prefer to think of it as noble. Livingstone himself would have approved, I am sure. Besides, we so-called civilized people have even more savage rituals. Have you ever seen a man hanged? It’s only education and upbringing that differentiate them from us. And a bit of English blood.” He laughed. “Enough of that. What did you discover, Octavia?”

  “Well,” she said, “I waited until the mourners were gone, and then a man with an Australian accent approached me. He gave me a document.” She slid the envelope across to Mr. Socrates. “Oh, and then he died.” She threw an envelope stuffed with cash on the table. “So I retrieved his payment.”

  Mr. Socrates pocketed the envelope. “Good work. Please explain his manner of death.”

  “Three mechanical birds attacked him.”

  “Mechanical birds?” Modo exclaimed. “But that sounds like the Clockwork Guild!”

  “Ah, you know of the Guild,” she said. “You really must be a trusted member of the Association. These birds seemed to have poison on their beaks, or their talons perhaps, for the Australian died immediately after having been scratched by one, even though his wounds weren’t deep.” She scratched her neck again.

  “It takes some skill to procure and administer contact poison,” Mr. Socrates observed. “Please continue.”

  “Well, a man was observing the attack from the balcony. He was waving his arms and seemed to be controlling the birds. I won’t bore you with details about how I escaped and left my mechanical feathered friends behind. I changed cabs twice to be certain no one followed me.”

  “Good work!” Modo said, now completely out of character.

  Octavia gave him an odd look. “There’s something familiar about you, Dr. Reeve. Is there any chance we’ve met before?”

  “Uh, I don’t b
elieve so.”

  “But we have. I’m growing more certain of it. I’ve heard your voice before. And there’s something about your eyes.”

  “I have never met you, Miss Milkweed,” he said, trying to deepen his voice.

  Mr. Socrates waved his hand. “The charade is over, Modo. Obviously your acting needs more work. My boy, you must be a consummate actor, especially around people who know you.”

  “Modo?” Octavia glared at him. “So this is another of your faces? And it was all a lark on Miss Milkweed, was it?”

  “Not a lark,” Modo said, stunned. This was not at all how he’d pictured their reunion.

  “What was it then, clever-pants?” she replied.

  “It wasn’t anything. It wasn’t!”

  “Enough!” Mr. Socrates pronounced. “It was only a minor test for both of you.”

  “Well, I …” Octavia lifted her hand, and Modo wondered if she was going to throw something at him, but instead she scratched her neck again. “This horrid itch,” she said, then, wide-eyed, pulled something out of her hair. Opening her fist, she looked at her palm and let out a little shriek as she dropped something on the table.

  A metal spider, an inch wide, lay there on its back, its silver legs kicking at the air. It ticked like a watch. “What the deuce is that!” she exclaimed.

  Mr. Socrates picked up a butter knife from the table and poked at the thing. It closed its legs tightly around the knife and began to climb. “Hmm. A curious device. Incredibly fine clockwork.” He slowly turned the knife, then dropped one of his cuff links onto the table. He bumped the spider close to it and the cuff link moved slightly. “It’s magnetic. Powerfully so, for something that size. Any idea how you came to get it?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” she replied.

  Tharpa found a tin in a desk drawer, and Mr. Socrates placed the spider inside and closed the lid.

  “I’ll have it examined. And, Octavia, we’ll have to have a real doctor examine your neck. Thank you, Tharpa.” He handed the tin to Tharpa, who then left the room.

  “The spider is troublesome. One can only guess at its purpose. Fortunately it wasn’t covered with contact poison or you’d be dead right now.”

  “Well, that’s a comfort,” Octavia said. She crossed her arms.

  “It might be a different kind of poison,” Modo suggested, “something with a delayed action.”

  “You sound as though you wish it were so,” Octavia said.

  “No. I just … you should see a doctor.”

  Mr. Socrates shrugged. “Once we’re done with this meeting, she’ll be attended to. But here’s what’s important now.”

  He opened the envelope and unfolded the map, holding it so only he could see. Modo stared at the back of it to avoid looking at Octavia, who he knew was still glaring at him. He could see a dim outline but couldn’t tell what area of the world the map represented.

  “Well, that settles it,” Mr. Socrates said finally. “Prepare yourselves for another mission. We are going to Australia.”

  A Hidey-Hole Discovered

  Gerhard Visser pounded his fist on the side of the cab. When it didn’t stop he smacked the roof several times and shouted, “Halt! Halt!” Now he understood why English gentlemen were always carrying walking sticks. The cab stopped. “Hold your position!” he shouted, and the cabbie muttered, “Your orders is my command, guvnuh.”

  Visser let the compass needle come to a rest. He’d circled this large, walled house and each time the needle had pointed toward it, which meant the spider was inside—and the woman as well, of course. He glanced at the statue of a Roman god at the gate.

  So this is one of their hidey-holes, he thought. It was a word he’d picked up from his time in pubs in Sydney, trying to find Fred Land. The Australians often talked about scaring wombats out of their hidey-holes.

  Visser had no idea what a wombat was, but he knew a good find when he saw one. He didn’t have the map. But he had located the home of one of their enemies. That would mean something, wouldn’t it? And he’d have ample information to give his masters. He’d send a telegram.

  He made a mental note of the address, pounded on the roof again, and shouted out the name of his hotel. He sat back and grinned ear to ear. His masters would be extremely pleased.

  An Uneasy Journey

  For the next seven days Modo waited at Safe House, training by himself, dining by himself, and wondering: Have I been forgotten? What if Mr. Socrates had decided to go to Australia without him? He’d rot here! There’d been no word from him, nor had Modo seen Tharpa, Mrs. Finchley, or Octavia. Footman attended to Modo’s needs, but the man rarely spoke.

  Modo read as much as he could about Australia, but only three books in the mansion even mentioned the country, and the one newspaper reference he found was an illustration of the Taradale Viaduct on the Melbourne-to-Sandhurst line. Apparently, gold had been found there back in the 1850s. If Modo had had permission to leave Safe House he could have changed into a gentlemanly shape and gone to Mudie’s on New Oxford Street, his favorite library.

  Then one morning Footman came into the parlor with a package wrapped in brown paper. Modo thanked him and unwrapped it to discover a thin wooden mask. It looked like something an African tribesman would have created, with large round eyeholes and a slit for a mouth. Inside the mask was a folded note in Mr. Socrates’ perfect handwriting:

  A gift for you, Modo. This African mask was the best I could find on such short notice. Artisans here know nothing of the Maori style, which would have been my preference. Please join us dressed impeccably and transformed into the appearance of Dr. Reeve. That persona has not been overused, though you shall be assigned a new name. We will travel first class. Immediately proceed to Victoria Dock to board the RMS Rome. Your clothing, weapons, and other necessary equipment are already packed.

  Mr. Socrates

  Modo held the note gently. His standing orders were to burn all correspondence, but instead he tucked the note into his pocket. Mr. Socrates had given him a lovely, hand-carved gift. He couldn’t bring himself to destroy this proof of his master’s kindness.

  He tried on the mask, tightening the leather straps. It fit perfectly. Mr. Socrates must have used the wax molding of Modo’s face. The doctors of the Permanent Association had made it recently when they were studying his adaptive transformation abilities.

  He set about changing his features, returning happily to the face of Dr. Jonathan Reeve—the Doctor face. He liked the straight jawline, the air of sophistication. Then he dressed in the same fine clothes he’d worn to Bedlam, but he chose a bowler hat this time. It seemed more appropriate for the voyage. Surely the wind on a ship would toss a top hat out to sea. He threw on a greatcoat and, clutching the mask in one hand, ran downstairs.

  Outside the front gates he climbed into the waiting carriage. “Victoria Dock, please,” he said to the driver.

  They rode east through the streets toward the docks, Modo wondering what the ocean voyage would be like. The idea of getting back on a ship didn’t make him particularly happy; in his last mission he’d had too many terrifying encounters with the ocean. Ah, don’t let that spoil your mood, he told himself. He was out of the mansion and actually going somewhere!

  After an interminably long time, the carriage stopped and Modo jumped out. Victoria Dock was the greatest of the Royal Docks, the largest port in London, maybe the world. This was where many of the goods from across the Empire were brought into England. He stared at the mass of workers and travelers, like ants next to the enormous steamships. A man with a wagonload of bananas rolled by. A train had pulled to a stop behind him, unloading even more people. There was a crowd of people and a host of portmanteaus large and small, carpetbags, brown-paper parcels, even canaries in birdcages!

  Modo made his way down the dock to the RMS Rome. He spotted Mr. Socrates, Tharpa, and, he was happy to see, Octavia. They stood next to several large crates. A woman in a red dress and long coat turned to look a
t him: Mrs. Finchley! He ran up to them.

  “Ah, Modo,” Mr. Socrates said, “late is better than never.”

  “It’s good to see you too, sir,” he said somewhat flippantly. “And you as well, Mrs. Finchley.”

  “Yes, Modo,” she answered, “always a pleasure.” She sounded a little distant, even aloof.

  Modo assumed she didn’t want to show too much affection in front of Mr. Socrates.

  “I assume you are pleased to see me, too.” Octavia gave him a haughty smile.

  “Of course, of course.” He clutched the mask close to his heart.

  “Interesting mask,” she said.

  “Oh, this?” Modo knocked at the wood. “Mr. Socrates gave it to me.”

  “Yes,” his master said, “you cannot hold that shape forever, you’ll need it to cover your face on the ship. We’ll explain it as an affectation. These are also for you.” Mr. Socrates handed several official papers and a ticket to Modo. “You’re to play my son.”

  “And what would your name be, Father?”

  “Robert Reid, son,” Mr. Socrates replied, smiling. “And your name is Anthony Reid.”

  “I’ll be the best son you ever had,” Modo said, meaning it to be a joke, but it came out sounding too serious.

  Something like sadness crossed Mr. Socrates’ face for an instant. “You’ll be extremely busy with studies and training. Mrs. Finchley is joining us to help you with your acting. It’s almost a two-month trip, so I expect you to be a brilliant actor by the end of it. Mrs. Finchley will also chaperone Octavia. She can’t be seen traveling alone with three men.” Octavia rolled her eyes at Modo and he struggled to hide a grin. “This will give Mrs. Finchley opportunity to refine Octavia’s upper-class accent. And etiquette. Especially her etiquette.” He stood impervious to her glare. “She will be my niece,” he added. “Miss Charity Chandra.”

  Eight men in dark greatcoats passed them on two wagons. Our luggage, Modo realized. Five twelve-foot-long crates were on one wagon and several trunks on the other. Being a mail steamer, the Rome was designed to carry a goodly amount of freight. Modo was curious: what could be inside such huge crates? But Mr. Socrates didn’t offer an explanation.