The Hunchback Assignments (18 page)

“You’re almost as tall as me when you do that.”

While they poked through the rubble, Modo kept an eye out for his haversack even though it had likely disappeared in the flames, along with his spyglass. He missed the spyglass; it had been a handy tool.

He turned over a few bricks with his walking stick, stopping when he found glass on the ground outside a charred window.

“This is where I jumped out.”

“You must have been very frightened.”

“Frightened?” He waved his hand. “I just needed a breath of fresh air.”

Octavia gave him a playful slap on the shoulder. “You’re a right jolly jester, I like that.”

They worked their way through the house, avoiding places where the floor had been burned away, revealing the cellar. Modo spotted a half-burned pair of India rubber boots and the sight prodded a memory. He nudged them with the stick. “Three pairs of boots sat here. And Fuhr had a scent of sewage about him.”

“Curious. Most gentlemen don’t stroll in the sewer for a bit o’ fun.” A curly lock of hair had fallen loose and bounced gently on her forehead. It mesmerized him.

“Featherstone did talk about descending into Hades,” he said.

“Ester may have disappeared down a manhole. It would make sense for us to look underground.”

“Will it be safe?” Modo’s voice cracked. The idea of climbing into a rat-infested sewer made his skin crawl.

“Safe? Be brave, Modo.”

“This isn’t about bravery,” he lied. “It’s about the wisdom of going where we may not be able to breathe.” He thought he sounded very rational.

“The rat catchers and sewer workers survive down there. It hasn’t rained for a few days, so the flow should be lower. We don’t want to go back to Mr. Socrates with nothing; he becomes such a crab when that happens.”

Modo laughed in agreement, feeling a little traitorous for doing so. He gave the boots a final prod, inadvertently twisting the knob on the top of the cane. Something at the end of the cane flashed and sliced the boot in half.

“Zounds!”

Octavia walked over to him. “What is it?”

He lifted the walking stick, to find a five-inch blade protruding from its end. “Mr. Socrates’ walking stick is also a weapon.”

He turned the knob back again and the knife slid into the base of the stick.

“That’s a nasty piece of work. Mr. S really does like his tools.”

Modo made the knife eject again and again. “Fascinating,” he whispered.

“When you’re done playing, we’ll continue our work.”

“Oh, fine. Where do we go?”

“I assume there’s a sewer entrance in the vicinity.” They walked to the backyard, where Octavia explored a well built of stone. Modo looked in the garden shed, then behind a fountain. He crossed the wooden floor of the gazebo and was taken by the sound. He tapped it with the walking stick, then again with his right foot, hard. It sounded
hollow. Looking closer, he saw the outline of a trapdoor surrounding him.

As he took another step the slats beneath his feet snapped. He let out a scream, grabbing at the air as he fell. A breathless second later, he hit the bottom, jarring his legs.

“Modo!” Octavia was looking down from at least ten feet above him.

He moved his legs, which hurt but weren’t broken. He tapped his foot on a circular stone lid, and yelled with all the drama he could muster, “Behold, I present to thee the sewer.”

O
ctavia watched from above as Modo effortlessly lifted the stone lid. He was unusually strong under all his oversized clothing, and she was about to tell him so just to see his reaction, when he staggered back. A moment later a thick wall of stench overcame her, making her eyes weep.

“You might not want to come down here,” he announced, covering his mouth and nose with the hood of his cloak.

“Nonsense!” Octavia climbed quickly down the wooden ladder at the edge of the trapdoor, but as she got closer to the sewer hole, she slowed. Even breathing through her mouth made her gag. “Oh, nothing like the sweet perfume of sewage to test one’s constitution. Do remember, Modo, I grew up in a foundling home. Nothing stank worse than the governess.”

With that, she shouldered past Modo and bent over to pick up a rope ladder piled near the hole. “Off we go,” she
said, dropping the coils into the darkness below. Then she hesitated. The entrance was far too small for her bustle. As it was, it had been marked by soot, and she didn’t want to add sewage to the mix. “Oh, Modo, I can’t roam around down there with my favorite dress on.” She began unbuttoning her bodice, and giggled when Modo looked away. “Don’t worry, I have underclothes on.”

“I know, I know, but it’s improper all the same,” he muttered, his face still averted.

“I’m improper at heart. I was educated on the streets of St. Giles, after all.” It took Octavia but a minute to slip out of her dress and bonnet, leaving her in a long-sleeved black underblouse and dark brown pantaloons and stockings. She hung the clothing on the ladder and turned to Modo.

“Oh,” he said, relief in his voice, “you’re dressed like a boy.”

Octavia burst out laughing. When she’d chosen these clothes earlier that day, she couldn’t have imagined this scenario. She had simply been preparing herself should she have to run. After the night chasing Ester, she swore that would be the last time she gave pursuit in layers of ankle-length skirts.

“What’s that?” said Modo, pointing at her thigh.

Octavia pulled her stiletto from its small sheath and flashed it at him with a smile. “It’s my best friend,” she said, and then slid it back into the sheath without looking at it. She had practiced this move many times in the past few years.

She eased herself into the narrow hole and climbed down the rope ladder. The hole was lined with bricks that
had become slick with fungi. The circle of light from above revealed a half-broken brick ledge beneath her and not much more to stand on. She stepped onto it; the sewage rippled an inch from her toes. Don’t even think about where this all comes from, she told herself.

She moved over to allow Modo to take his place beside her, but he didn’t let go of the rope. He poked at the water with his walking stick. She couldn’t see his face clearly, but she was certain his grimace matched her own.

“You’re almost invisible,” Modo said, “except for your hair and eyes.”

“Nice of you to notice them.” She imagined he would be blushing. He was such an easy mark. “We need a little light.” She reached into one of the pouches in her waistband and removed her pocket lucifer.

“I hope you aren’t getting out matches. The gases down here could be explosive.”

“This isn’t a match, but there’ll be a spark. We’ll have to risk it. If there is gas, dive into the water; sewer gas rises, remember.”

“I knew that.”

“Well, here’s the test then.” She found the switch on the back, flicked it, and with a zap and a spark, a bright light glowed into life. “Boom!” she said right into his face, giving him a start. Her voice echoed in the tunnel.

“That’s not funny, Miss Milkweed,” Modo whispered. “And do be quiet. We have no idea how far away our enemies are.”

Octavia tried, unsuccessfully, to look apologetic.

“What kind of light is that?” he asked.

“A pocket lucifer—it’s one of Mr. Socrates’ little gadgets.” Octavia held up the tiny lamp, which was hidden inside a pocket watch. She pointed it right at Modo and he quickly covered his eyes. For a moment, one eye had looked larger than the other to her. “It’s powered by an electric cell.”

“Electric cells can be made that small?”

“Of course. You should ask him for one. He has all sorts of clever inventions. Pneumatic pistols, wireless telegraphs, electric nail clippers.” She laughed. “I made up that last one. So what direction do you suggest?”

The light revealed an arched brick tunnel and a long stream of sewage flowing into the dark. Here and there, large rats skittered along the edges. “I don’t know that it matters,” Modo said.

“Forward, then. Let’s call it Octavia’s intuition. I guess I’m going to have to sacrifice my shoes. I ain’t walking through
that
in bare feet. I’m no mudlark.”

She had long ago learned to do these sorts of tasks without dwelling on them. In her line of work, hesitation could be death. Of course, she told herself, in this case the smell might be the death of me. She stepped into the cold stream of sewage, teeth clenched as she felt it moving around her calves and knees. It wasn’t just human excrement, but anything that could be dumped down the drain. Rags. Twigs and leaves. Fat, blood, and skin from slaughter houses.

In an eddy near the wall, a baby floated, faceup, its left arm draped over the brick edging. Octavia’s stomach
tightened, but a hesitant step closer revealed that it was just a cloth doll with a ceramic head.

She held the pocket lucifer high above her head, speaking quietly. “There are miles of tunnels. We could even tramp underground to Buckingham Palace and watch the Royals do their business.”

“Don’t even jest about that!” Modo exclaimed.

Octavia laughed, saying, “You’re from Greenland.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re so green you’re from Greenland.”

“I’m not green.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“I’m no lady! And don’t you dare quote Shakespeare at me. You don’t even like him.”

Octavia shrugged, tossed her hair back, and sloshed on ahead of him. From time to time her footing would slip on the bumpy floor of the sewer lane, and she’d wobble. Her fear, of course, was of falling over. Lines on the wall showed how high the effluent ran during heavy rains. She pictured a sudden downpour, she and Modo up to their chests in muck or swept away to who knows where in mere moments.

They stopped at a split in the tunnel. Octavia moved her pocket lucifer back and forth. “Hmm. Do we go left or right?”

“Over here,” Modo said excitedly. “There are scratches in the shape of a triangle.”

Well, this was a piece of good luck. Octavia slapped him on the back.

“Don’t do that,” Modo scolded her in a harsh whisper. “Please don’t touch my back.”

She pulled her hand away in confusion, and let him push on ahead of her. She followed for a long time, wondering why he had lashed out at her that way, before she broke the silence. “So where are you from, Modo? Or may I ask that?”

“You may ask me anything, Miss Milkweed. Whether I answer it or not is another matter.”

“It’s Tavia,” she said. “Please call me Tavia.”

“Well, Tavia,” he said, and she was pleased that he was sounding friendly again. “I grew up near Lincoln in a house that belonged to Mr. Socrates. He raised me.”

Octavia stopped in the middle of the stream. “You were raised by Mr. Socrates?”

“Of course!” He sounded proud. “And Mrs. Finchley was my mother … my governess, but unlike yours, she smelled good. Have you met her?”

“No. Is Mr. Socrates your father?”

“No. What a silly question. I—I don’t know who my parents were. Mr. Socrates, he … found me. Trained me. Raised me.”

“So you’re an orphan? We have that in common at least. I was left outside a foundling home with just the clothes on my back and a one-word note:
burden.”

Modo stopped and waited for her to catch up. The rats had multiplied, squeaking madly, and scattering from the light. “How did you become an agent?” he asked.

“When I was twelve I tried to pick the pocket of an old gentleman. His servant, an Indian, caught me. The
gentleman, as you can guess, was Mr. Socrates. He gave me his address to visit if I wanted real work. Since pickpocketing was a good way to end up swinging at the end of a rope, I decided to take him up on his offer. I still can’t believe he paid me to read books, to practice voices, even to learn to swim, with Tharpa’s help. And now here I am. My boring ol’ life.”

All the while, Octavia had been flashing her light along the walls. “Look, Modo, an etching! But there’s no split in the tunnel, so what does it mean?”

Modo sloshed over to the wall and touched the triangle. “Miss Milkw—I mean, Tavia,” he said, “there’s something sticking out here.”

“What do you mean?”

“The center of the triangle is …” He pushed on it, and the section slipped back into the wall. A door-shaped portion shifted out of his way, revealing a tunnel. It had been seamlessly set into the wall.

“Brilliantly done,” Octavia whispered. “Now to see if anyone’s home.” She held up the pocket lucifer, lighting the roughly hewn tunnel. It was high enough to walk through upright. “Carpe diem!” she said, drawing her stiletto, and happy to finally be able to step out of the sewage. She motioned Modo to join her against the tunnel wall. Once together, they slid along it for ten feet or so until they came to a large room in complete disarray. Furniture had been flipped over or broken, flasks had been smashed everywhere, and the smell of smoke mingled with the sewer stench. A door leading to a smaller room was hanging from its hinges.

Octavia shone her light to be sure no one was hiding there. “Lovely place,” she said, while stepping carefully into the room.

Modo poked through smashed beakers and half-burned papers on the floor, using his walking stick. “We’re in the right place, anyway,” he said, showing her a torn, partly burned paper with the clockwork symbol stamped at the top. Octavia held the light so they could both read it: