The Hunchback Assignments (11 page)

Octavia leaned over and grabbed hold of the cover’s edge. She dug her feet into the ground, but was only able to lift the lid an inch before dropping it with a clang. There was no way in heaven that Ester could have lifted it. Octavia found a thick branch, but it snapped the moment she tried to pry the lid off.

Ester couldn’t have hidden down there. But then Octavia remembered the way Ester had thrown her—thrown her!—across the room. How her ribs still ached! This girl was unnaturally strong.

At last, perspiring, Octavia gave up on trying to lift the lid, and on capturing Ester. In any case, she had more than accomplished her assigned task. Ester was free of the orphanage, at least, though Octavia wasn’t certain that was a good thing anymore. However, if Ester was in the sewers she certainly seemed tough enough to face any danger she might find down there.

Octavia slipped her shoes on, took one last look around, and walked out of the park. It was a few minutes before a cab passed down Hadford Street. She hailed it, and as the cabbie drove to the address she’d been given, she wrote her observations of Ester’s condition using a pencil and a piece of paper she’d tucked into her sash earlier. She bit her lip, concentrating. Each bump made her hand jerk. It was hard to tell in the dark if the note would be readable.

Octavia had the driver wait while she walked up the front path of the three-story mansion, passing through a large iron gate. One corner of the house was a tall turret, its slit windows lit. The letter box at the front door was also in the shape of a turret. She dropped her letter into the drawbridge of the letter box. When the hinge closed, a soft bell sounded. She hurried to the carriage.

Back at the Langham, she walked to the far side of the hotel and waited until Bond Street was clear. She checked to be sure no one was looking out the hotel windows, then hiked up her skirts and tucked them in her sash. She scaled the faux balconies to her room and swung herself, legs first, into the open window. It wasn’t exactly a graceful entrance; her dress caught on the iron latticework and she felt half undressed by the time she’d squeezed in, kicking her way past the long, heavy curtains. As she fought to tidy her skirts, she envied men and their trousers. Her perfect life would be a place where she could wear trousers all the time. On an island, perhaps. With a prince.

“Out for a stroll, were you?” a gruff voice snapped.

Octavia swallowed her panic and answered as calmly as she could. “I needed a bit of fresh air.”

“Mmm. Is there no fresh air outside the front door?” The voice came from the far corner of the room.

“Sometimes a lady desires a little privacy.” It was too dark to see anything. She had sewn a small opening in her dress so she could speedily slip her stiletto from a sheath worn around her left thigh. She grasped the handle. I have one chance, she told herself. Strike hard.

“Reaching for your weapon?” he asked. She heard shuffling, a squeak of the floor.

She caught her breath. “No, no. Only smoothing out my dress.”

“Then remove your hand. Slowly.”

She did, leaving the stiletto in its sheath. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir. I don’t know your name.”

“And I do not know yours, apparently. And therein lies the problem.” He chuckled. “Lies. The. Problem. Yes, that is a very apt description of the situation. Lies. Lies. Lies.”

She had no idea what he was going on about. He sounded as though he had a slate loose. Her eyes had adjusted and she could make out the lines of her bed, the dresser beside it, and in the corner, on a chair, a lumpy shape.

She considered the distance: three or four yards at most. She could leap over and strike in a heartbeat. However, it was likely that he had a pistol.

“Why are you mumbling on about lies?” she asked.

“Because lies are what you are cloaked in.”

“And how would you know that?” She took tiny, imperceptible steps toward him, only to discover, to her horror,
that there wasn’t a man in the chair, just a coat dropped onto it. Her heart thudded.

“I only want the truth from you. What is your name?”

She was certain the voice was behind her now. She smelled smoke. “My name is none of your concern.”

“Well, None of Your Concern, it is a pleasure to meet you. Again.”

Again? His voice was indeed familiar, but it was so guttural and strained she couldn’t recognize it.

He wheezed and grunted. She took some consolation in this; perhaps he was sick or even wounded. Maybe he had no intention to harm her. If he’d been an agent from Russia or Germany, her throat would have been slit by now. Unless, of course, he was planning to dispatch her after this strange interrogation.

“Are you unwell?” she asked, turning slowly toward his voice and looking for his shape in the dark.

“Oh, so now you’re concerned for my health. How sweet, Miss Featherstone.”

A smile crossed her lips.

“Mr. Wellington,” she said to the curtains. “If, indeed, that is your real name. It is such a pleasure to meet you again.”

“S
tay where you are,” Modo hissed from behind the velvet curtain. He could just make out her silhouette through a moth hole. He felt a stab of guilt for treating her this way, but the anger buzzing in his skull and the soreness in his arms and lungs reminded him why he’d dragged himself over rooftops to the Langham, wheezing the whole way. It had been her fault! She might not have been able to predict he would come so close to death, but chances were that she had known he was being sent into danger. “I don’t trust you, Miss
Featherstone.
Not one iota.”

“May I at least sit down? I’ve been rather busy myself this evening and a dainty lass such as I needs her rest.”

Twice she had glanced in his direction. He was certain she knew where he was. He’d been able to throw his voice to confuse her, but now there would be no point.

“Sit on the bed, then. But back away from the curtain.”

“What will be the consequence if I don’t?”

“I’m pointing a pistol at you. I shall shoot you straight through the heart.”

“Ah, that’s consequence enough. I prefer to keep my heart intact.” She did as he instructed and sat on the edge of her bed just as he launched into a series of hacking coughs.

“Do you need syrup?” she asked. “I have some Daffy’s Elixir, fresh from the apothecary.”

“You’d likely poison me. And I’ve already been close enough to death tonight, thanks to you and your so-called brother. I thought the investigation into the nocturnal activities of Mr. Featherstone was to be a simple matter. I nearly died.”

“I’m awfully sorry.”

Was she being flippant? She didn’t seem to be surprised by this or have so much as a thimbleful of remorse.

“So, Mr. Wellington, how did you uncover my secret life?”

“I … when I accepted your case, I was … let us say, trusting. If I hadn’t been so blinded by your …” He paused, remembering the way she’d dabbed at her lovely eyes with her handkerchief when she’d relayed the story of her brother. She had used her voice, beauty, and charm, to great effect. “… lies. I have since discovered that Oscar Featherstone has no sister.”

“And how did you discover where I live?”

“I analyzed your handwriting.”

“My handwriting told you where to go?”

“No. But you used a pen with a nearly dry inkwell. You
had to retrace your writing several times. Hotels are notorious for being cheap with their inkwells.”

“And how did you conclude I was staying at the Langham?”

“The watermark on the notepaper was an L. And do you remember the handkerchief you used to wipe your eyes?”

“Yes.”

“It was embossed with an L. If you were not Mr. Featherstone’s sister, then you were most likely without permanent lodging. It was a small matter to deduce that you were staying at the Langham. You seemed the upper-class type.”

“The type? Am I?” she huffed. “And how did you find my room?”

“It was the only room with the window open on a cold night. Fortunately, I’m rather adept at climbing.”

“Ah, you’re a Peeping Tom, then.”

“I don’t peep! This was strictly business. I knew I was in the right place when I found the handkerchief here on the desk.” Modo couldn’t resist a grin. Mr. Socrates would have been proud of his line of reasoning. His training had led him to the girl.

“Well, clever deductions on your part, Mr. Wellington. But I’m afraid you aren’t entirely correct.”

“How so?”

“I had a sniffly nose a few weeks back, so I stole the handkerchief from a gentleman whose last name was Longval.”

Modo let out a hoarse laugh. “So, perhaps I’m not quite as bright as I believed. Nevertheless, I’m here and, if it’s
not too much to ask, I’d like to know why I was almost murdered. But first, tell me your name.”

“You tell me yours,” she fired back. She certainly was brave, Modo conceded. If she believed there was a gun trained on her, she didn’t seem in the least concerned. “It’s not Wellington. A little too obvious, isn’t it? Or should I be calling you ‘Duke’?”

“It’s Modo,” he said, surprised at how quickly he blurted it out. He chastised himself for being too eager. Why did she make him behave this way?

“Are you Mr. Modo? Or are we such intimate friends now that I need only your first name?”

“Modo is my only name,” he said.

“Hmm. I see. Well, I’m Octavia Milkweed,” she said, “but you can call me Tavia.”

“Tavia.” He let the name roll around on his tongue. It was from the family name for Caesar Augustus, he had learned that from his studies. It suited her. There was indeed something regal about her.

For a moment she turned her head and her profile in the moonlight made his heart skip.

Concentrate, Modo! He had to get to the root of what happened to him, but he was growing short of breath and his head throbbed. Under the mask the sweat dripped into his eyes. He leaned back against the wall and rustled the drapes to let some air in. He felt as though his knees would buckle.
I’ve got to breathe.
He blinked several times and looked through the hole in the curtain. Octavia still sat on the bed.

“Wh-why did you send me to that house?” he asked.

“I can’t tell you. It would upset my employer.”

“Who is your employer?”

“I can’t tell you that, either. Besides, if I can’t look into your eyes, how can I trust you?”

“How can I trust
you?
That’s the question!”

“Perhaps if you look at me, face to face, you will trust me.”

Of course, Modo couldn’t show Octavia his real face. But perhaps another face, a beautiful one that would please her. He was weak, but if he left his hood on and just changed his face she might—she might trust him. He loosened the mask and began to imagine a knight he’d memorized from an illustration.

“You’re awfully quiet, Modo. Are you bored of me already?”

If he spoke now, as his lips changed, he would slur. His chest heaved. Maybe rib bones were broken. He realized, too late, he was making a mistake. The change sapped the last of his strength and made it even harder to breathe. Modo felt himself blacking out.

When he came to, he was lying on the floor with a piece of the curtain in his hand. Octavia was standing over him.

“You don’t have a pistol,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“I. Must. Go,” he whispered.

“Why are you wearing a hood?” she said. “And a mask?”

“Stay back,” he warned. He felt his face to be sure the mask was tight.
“Sray brack,”
he slurred, trying to sit up.

It was too difficult to breathe, to think. He shouldn’t have tried to change; it was a stupid decision! The blood was rushing to his head. He fell back again and for several moments he saw and heard nothing.

“Modo.” A whisper. “Modo?” A touch on his shoulder. Mrs. Finchley?

He opened his eyes to find Octavia reaching toward him, toward his mask. She was holding a candle in her other hand.

“No,” he moaned, grabbing her arm with his gloved hands. “Don’t look at my face. Promise me you will never look at my face. I must keep it secret. Promise me, Miss Milkweed. Never. Look. At. My. Face.”

But he was weak. She brushed away his grip and reached out again. “Oh, Modo. It won’t hurt either of us. You’ve seen
my
face after all.” Her fingers slipped under the black mask and pulled it away. He tried to utter another “Noooo.”

“I don’t know what all the fuss was about,” she said, holding the mask. “You’ve got a rather handsome mug.”

These were the last words Modo heard before he fell again into unconsciousness.

T
he sack over Oppie’s head was tied tightly around his neck and smelled of rotten potatoes. His hands were bound too, and he staggered forward every time his captors gave him a shove.

There were two of them—the doctor and a man with a hoarse voice. Oppie didn’t ask any questions and had long since stopped sobbing. He’d been duped. He knew better than to follow a stranger into a room, but he’d been mesmerized by the clockwork bird. Before he could react, a large man had yanked the sack over Oppie’s head and knocked him about until the doctor said, “Don’t harm the specimen any further.”

Through it all he heard the taunting chirping of the sparrows. He thought of his mother waiting at home for him, wondering where he was, and the sobbing began. Then he was dragged along and tossed up onto a hard
surface. “Take us to Balcombe,” the gruff man said, and another man grunted. Horses snorted and the surface shook, so Oppie decided he was on a wagon. After what felt to be a long fearful journey the wagon stopped and he was pulled to his feet.

“I’m sick o’ going down there,” a man grumbled. “Not fit habitation for man nor beast.”

“It is necessary to have utmost secrecy,” the doctor said. “Now, please, do your job.”

Oppie was led along for a few yards, then thrown on the ground. The sound of grating metal startled him, but he was even more jolted by the stink that followed. Even the man who was holding him shuddered as he muttered, “Ghastly piece o’ work, this.”

Oppie felt another heavy rope drop around him. It was quickly tied and he was given a shove. As he fell through the air he had just enough time to let out a little scream before he was jerked to a stop by the ropes. The top of his skull struck something so hard that tiny stars glittered inside his head. The smell made him heave. He feared he’d throw up in the sack and drown. He gritted his teeth in an effort to hold himself together.