Empire of Ruins (6 page)

Over the past two months, Visser had pursued Fred Land from Sydney, Australia, to London. Though Visser was an expert tracker, he had consistently been one ship, one port, or one pub behind the man for far too long. Only this very morning had he discovered Land’s hidey-hole at the Black Sheep Inn and followed him to the funeral. A nice idea to carry out the exchange at such a public event, but it hadn’t saved the man’s life.

Visser hadn’t expected a female agent. The woman was brave enough, he had to give her that. To actually question
him while the birds were swooping around her and then to knock one out of the air … Most victims fled in fear and were cut down as they ran.

So, she had the map. Now he would have to retrieve it. That was the thing about being an agent: sometimes plans had to be altered on the fly. He’d fully intended to kill her and be done with it, but once the soldiers and constables arrived, there was no point. She’d be dead and someone else would have the map. Instead, at the last moment he’d signaled one of the falcons to drop a special instrument on her.

This might be good; she would perhaps lead him to a bigger catch. At least that was what he would tell his masters at the Clockwork Guild. He would send them a telegram within the hour.

Visser felt satisfaction slowly building. This was how he liked things to work. Each gear clicking into place like the perfect timepiece.

Taking a compass from his pocket, Visser was particularly pleased to discover that it was not pointing north. Instead it was pointing toward the door that the woman had used. As he watched, the needle slowly moved. He guessed she would be in a cab by now.

It was time to follow her. He disheveled his blond hair, picked up the portmanteau, and fled down the stairs and out of the church, shouting, “The birds! The birds are in the balcony!” He ran right past the soldiers, who were still waiting for orders from their officers.

M
odo sighed as the gate to Bedlam closed behind him. That it was still light out was surprising—it felt as though several hours had passed inside the hospital. And he hadn’t learned anything from the meeting with Alexander King.

The man was disturbing; Modo had never before been nose to nose with someone who had lost his faculties. Perhaps most disturbing of all was the man’s face. The self-inflicted scratches. The blood. Could it be he hated his appearance? Modo himself had moments when he wanted to tear his own face off. Would it one day drive him as mad as that poor fellow?

Concentrate. Why were you sent here?
He sifted through every detail of their conversation and couldn’t find a single clue as to why he’d been given this mission.

Smartly dressed ladies and gentlemen, out for a walk, saw him leaving Bedlam and gave him the once-over, then
observed the walls of the madhouse with curiosity and perhaps a little fear. No doubt they wondered what was inside.
Insanity
, he wanted to shout at them,
insanity and violinists and painters! That’s what I saw!

You’re a doctor
, he reminded himself,
and you are an agent. Control yourself
.

He hadn’t been told where to go after the interview, so he decided to return to Safe House. He was about to raise his hand for a cab when he noticed a black carriage at the edge of Lambeth Road. The wide-shouldered driver in a greatcoat sat staring ahead with his back straight, suggesting a military background. The carriage door swung open. Modo knew who would be inside even before Mr. Socrates leaned out and motioned him over.

Modo removed his hat, walked to the carriage, and climbed in, closing the door behind him. He sat down on the red velvet bench across from his master. Mr. Socrates was wearing a black dress coat with a fur collar, opened to reveal his blue jacket, his white vest, and the gold chain of his watch. His top hat sat beside him like a companion. Modo would have considered Mr. Socrates an old man, with his white, closely cropped hair and wrinkled face, but his eyes held a wellspring of energy and strength that would have intimidated anyone half his age.

Mr. Socrates tapped his walking stick on the ceiling of the carriage and they began to roll down the street. He appraised Modo for several moments and nodded to himself as though a question had been answered, then leaned forward on his stick.

“So, what did you discover about the illustrious Alexander King?”

“He is quite mad.”

“One would expect so, since he is housed in Bedlam. Did you ascertain anything specific from meeting him? Details about his past, perhaps? His occupation?”

Modo leaned on his walking stick, until he realized he was unintentionally mimicking Mr. Socrates. “Uh, well, he has rough hands, so that suggests that he has done some labor. His diction isn’t of the lower classes, though. He is partially tanned, so he has spent a good deal of his time outside. I would guess that he is a naturalist or an engineer.”

Mr. Socrates nodded. “Good observations, though the last is incorrect. King is an explorer. A second-class one, to be sure. But we keep tabs on all the explorers, even the unsuccessful ones.”

“His accent was Canadian,” Modo added.

“Yes, he’s from Vancouver.”

Ah, another morsel from my master
, Modo thought dryly. “You seem to know quite a bit about him. Why didn’t you give me this information before the interview?”

“I wanted an unprejudiced view, so to speak. I have now told you most everything I know about our mutual friend. The only other fact is that he was recently brought back to London from Australia by our government.”

“Why?”

“He’s suspected in a death or two.”

“Whose deaths?”

“A fellow adventurer from Germany. And the death of Dr. Livingstone.”

“But Livingstone died of natural causes!”

“According to the papers, yes. And that’s the story the government will always give to the public. But the evening
he died, he wrote in his diary—a diary that’s been kept a secret—that he was about to dine with Mr. King. The same Mr. King who was reported to have been climbing with Josef Stimmler a few weeks earlier on Mount Kilimanjaro. Stimmler fell to his death on that climb. Odd to have two explorers die within such a short period of time and in the company of the same person. I wouldn’t call this coincidence.”

“So why did he murder them?”

“That’s what I was hoping you’d shed some light on. Alas, you haven’t been successful in gathering any pertinent information.”

“I did my best, sir,” Modo snapped, surprised at his angry tone. Well, what did Mr. Socrates expect? He’d locked Modo away in that mansion for months, then thrown him into an assignment expecting him to be at the top of his game. “And besides, I haven’t told you everything yet, sir.”

“When you finish your huffing and puffing, do please tell me.”

“There are hieroglyphics on the cell wall, written in his own blood, I believe.”

Mr. Socrates nodded as though he heard these sorts of details every day. “Anything else?”

“He recited a nonsense rhyme.” Modo paused to call up the words. “
 ‘The mountain keen, the forest green, the God Face burns inside. The west at your spine, the face divine. Through the doorway go, beneath the Horus stone. The face it waits, it waits, it waits.’ 
”

“Well, he won’t give Coleridge a run for his money,” Mr. Socrates said, and chuckled.

Modo smiled broadly. He loved Coleridge’s poetry and
was pleased to think his master read him too. Mr. Socrates might even be old enough to have known Coleridge himself.

Mr. Socrates rubbed his chin. “His poetic rantings do sound rather mad. Most likely pointless drivel. But could it perhaps be a riddle?”

So I was sent to discover pointless drivel
, Modo thought. “I do wonder, sir, why I had to sneak in. Why didn’t you just pull a few strings and make an appointment yourself?”

“Sometimes it’s best not to tip your hand, Modo. Even to members of one’s own government. A formal request would have resulted in questions and I would have had to respond, which likely would have involved reams of paperwork. An undocumented visit solves that.”

The carriage rattled along. Modo wanted to ask Mr. Socrates many things, including “Why haven’t I been given any assignments for over two months?” But he took a deep breath. It wasn’t his place to question. He was here to follow orders.

They crossed the familiar iron and granite Westminster Bridge, which was clogged with traffic. The sight of the Houses of Parliament made Modo feel a little nauseated. Would he ever be able to view them again without remembering the monstrous creation the Clockwork Guild had built to attack the government? He and Octavia had joined forces against it; if not for Octavia, he would have drowned in the Thames. Twice now she had saved his life, and she would hold that fact over his head until the day he died. Unless, of course, he could find a way to save her life in return.

As the carriage plowed through the traffic, Modo turned
his attention to Westminster Abbey, next to the Houses of Parliament. A majestic sight—the seat of civilization, of the very Empire. The was what the Permanent Association was fighting to preserve. Mr. Socrates was looking at the Abbey too.

“They buried Livingstone today,” he offered. “I’ll miss the old man.”

“You knew Dr. Livingstone?” Modo asked.

“Yes, he had a great mind, though he was a little too much of a missionary for my taste. I supported his appointment as a consul for the east coast of Africa by the Royal Geographical Society. He was a good friend.”

“Why didn’t you attend the funeral?” The question had slipped out. “I’m sorry, sir, was that too personal?”

“I’m not one for long goodbyes, Modo. When I depart this world, just set me on a burning boat and push me out to sea. The Norsemen knew how to do funerals.”

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?”