The Hunchback Assignments (6 page)

“You’ll ride with me now,” Mr. Socrates instructed Modo. Tharpa took the seat beside the driver.

Modo peered out the window while the horses clopped down the street. The spectral forms of Londoners swirled up the alleys.

“You’ve displayed an admirable capacity for tutelage,” Mr. Socrates said. “I’m pleased. Mrs. Finchley would say I’ve been hard on you, but I have my reasons.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Modo, there’s an important assignment you must complete. It is my sincere hope that all your training, all your diligent studying will result in a successful mission, for it will be, as they say, a sink or swim situation.”

“I don’t understand, sir,” Modo croaked.

“You must survive on the streets of London … on your own.”

It took a few moments for the words to sink in. “On my own?”

“Exactly.” Mr. Socrates thumped the roof with his walking stick. The coach slowed, then stopped. “This assignment is intended to cut the apron strings. You have been an exceptional student, but it is time that you learned to act independently.” Mr. Socrates swung open the door.

“You want me to leave?”

“Please, Modo, don’t belabor the obvious. Prove that my investment in you was well founded. I’ll find you again when you have completed your assignment. Go, at once.”

Modo stepped hesitantly down onto the wet street.

“Wh-when will you come for me? How long will—”

Mr. Socrates closed the door. From his perch next to the driver, Tharpa refused to look at him. The driver cracked his whip and the horses trotted on while Modo shouted from the curb, “But wait! I have no food! No money! Mr. Socrates! I need my clothes! Tharpa! Wait!”

Modo watched, stunned, as the coach turned down an alley and was gone. He stared after it for a long time as though at any moment it would reappear and his nightmare would be over. His heart thumped madly. Inside the coach, he’d felt safe, accustomed as he was to having walls around him. Here on the street with the sky open above him and the freedom to choose any direction he liked, Modo became confused and uncertain of what to do.

And then, from behind him, a voice cut through the fog.

“’Ere’s a pritty lad. Come’n let me see yeh.”

Modo spun around and leapt back in fright. A dead
horse stared blankly from the back of a knacker’s wagon. From around the other side lurched an old woman, her eyes glazed with madness. A smile twisted across her chapped lips, revealing black, broken teeth. “Come ’ere, laddy,” she rasped, reaching for him with gnarled hands. “Why you wearin’ a mask? Let me ’ave it.”

Modo stumbled, caught himself on a lamppost, then, in a frenzy, ran down one cobblestone street after another, deeper into the city.

S
ix months later a letter arrived at the Langham Hotel. The bellman slid it under the door of Room 443 where it was picked up by a young but slightly calloused hand. The letter was read once, its contents committed to memory, then it was burned. Octavia Milkweed chose a blue bonnet and matching crinoline dress, applied a light dusting of rouge to hide her freckles, and used the hotel pen and ink to write down the name of a man and his address. The ink was a cheap kind and she had to go over her writing twice. She waited for the note to dry before placing it in her purse, then left the room, umbrella in hand. She rode the lift down to the lobby and had the porter hail a hansom cab. When she told the driver their destination, he furrowed his thick brow.

“Seven Dials? Are you certain?” he asked.

“I am always certain,” she replied with a degree of haughtiness.

The cabbie shook his head. She felt the cab jerk and shake as he climbed into his station at the back and flicked the reins. The horse trotted down the granite-paved street.

Octavia grinned. She knew that being confident and dressing in such finery intimidated lower-class men. The cabbie probably thought she was twenty years old. Maybe even twenty-five. Her own best guess at her real age was that she was fifteen. No one had written down her birth date at the orphanage, so she would never know for certain.

She had rehearsed the instructions in the letter several times, creating both a new persona and a plan. Acting had always come natural. She didn’t much like being herself, most of her childhood years. Better to invent someone new.

It was still light out when they drove through Seven Dials; seven streets met at a junction with a sundial in the center. It was a nasty neighborhood, and Octavia knew it well. She’d eaten and drunk in the gin shops and pubs, hidden in a cellar nearby to avoid Picklenose, a particularly nasty copper. Any of the ragged children with their dirty hands pressed up against shopwindows displaying third-hand dresses, could have been her a few years before. Even the sundial brought back memories: It was the first place she’d kissed a boy, a young gentleman. She had stolen his watch and wallet that day. A good haul.

Two horses snorted as they pulled an omnibus past Octavia’s cab, clerks in derby hats gawking out the windows. Below them was emblazoned an advertisement for
Oakey’s Knife Polish. The omnibus nearly collided with a knacker’s wagon. Octavia wondered what madman had designed such an intersection. Ruffians ran in front of her cab, paying no mind to the danger presented by horse hooves. She directed the cabbie to a nearby pub.

“Please, hurry and do your errand, Madam,” said the cabbie. “These streets ain’t safe.”

She offered him a threepence. “This will ease your mind.” He coughed gently into his gloved hand and she dropped a few more coins into his palm.

When she entered the Red Boar, a cloud of burned bread, burped beer, and thick smoke made her wrinkle her nose in disgust. The pub was lit by one large oil lamp. Three customers, already sodden, were slumped against a table. One lifted red-rimmed eyelids to take her in. She told the portly innkeeper her purpose, giving him her kindest smile.

“Oh, you want to see Mr. W, do you?” the innkeeper grumbled. “He’s rooming at the top of the stairs. Oppie, show our guest the way.”

Octavia thought the man was speaking to the air, until a pile of rags behind the counter moved. A dirty-faced boy, thin as a broomstick, rubbed at his eyes, yawned, and stood up. “Be quick!” the innkeeper barked.

“This way, Missus,” the boy said, leading her through a door and up a set of creaking stairs.

“You got business wif Mr. W?” he asked. She judged him to be no more than eight. The only clean thing on him was a near fashionable red neckerchief tied over his collar.

“Yes, I do. Though I must admit I have never met him. What is he like?”

“I brings ’im ’is meal free times a day when I’m not cleaning out the slop for Mr. Berks. Sometimes Mr. W tells me stories. ’E reads ’em from a book.”

“So he lets you into his room?”

“No. I ent ever seen ’im. ’E reads ’em through the door. ’E’s a brainy sort—a master detective, ’e is. Find anyfing or anyun vat’s missing, one ’undred percentages guaranteed. ’E’s better van all ’em clowns in Scotland Yard.”

“How much does he pay you to say that?” she asked, kindly.

“Ma’am! God’s truth, I’m just repeating what I ’ear on the street. ’E’s a real good sot. And ’e says I could one day be ’is ’prentice. Oppie Wilkers, Detective. Nice ring, ent it? ’E’s generous, too. ’E gave me vis neckerchief, when I told ’im it was my birfday.”

“And was it your birthday?”

“Of course, miss. Of course!”

Octavia nodded. The boy was lying. She’d changed her own birth date on occasion to coax gifts out of unsuspecting boys. The kid was clever, but talkative. The bit about Mr. W never opening his door was an interesting piece of information. He must be a very private man.

She was led up a narrow staircase where a small broken window let in a few rays of light.

“’At’s where Mr. W stays. Top o’ the inn, it is. Only room up ’ere.” He pointed at a door. “I leaves ’is meals ’ere. ’E’s partial to chicken.” On the floor was a plate littered
with bones. Oppie picked it up. “Wot else you need, Missus?”

“That will be all.” She slipped twopence into his hand and he gave her a near toothless grin.

“Be at your beck’n’call just down the stairs,” he said as he skipped away.

Octavia stood in front of Mr. W’s door and noted the lion that had been carved into it. She considered the stature of the guests who may have at one time stayed there.

She knocked and waited, but there was no reply, which gave her pause. The letter hadn’t said what to do in the event that her contact was unavailable. Perhaps she should leave a note. Then, just as she was about to call for Oppie, she heard the groan of floorboards.

“Yes?” asked a deep male voice.

“I have come about your notice in the paper. I need you to find something.”

A few moments passed. “What sort of item?” She sensed he was not using his real voice. The pitch occasionally wavered.

“A very important one. May I come in, Mr.… Mr.… ?”

“Mr. Wellington.”

“Wellington? Truly?”

“Yes. But I’m not the Duke of Wellington, obviously. And no, you may not come in. Those who employ me cannot see me.”

“Then how will I know I can trust you?”

“Never trust your eyes, that’s my motto. In any case, by
remaining anonymous I can move around London Town and beyond without being recognized. If you don’t agree with the terms you are free to go. But you should know I have many satisfied customers.”

He spoke with a slight accent; she couldn’t place it. His tone was somber and each word deliberate.

A flicker of light on the door drew her attention. She now saw that a tiny peephole had been rigged in the eye of the carved lion.

“Mr. Wellington,” she said wryly, “are you watching me?”

A thud from the other side of the door. “No. Don’t be silly. I can’t see through doors.”

Knowing full well he could see her, she resisted the urge to smile.

“Well, then, if those are your terms, I suppose I have no choice but to accept them. And since this mission is of utmost importance, you must begin today.”

“Today? I am rather busy, of course, but, well … what is it you want me to find?”

“It will no doubt sound peculiar, but you see, the thing I have lost is … is my brother.”

The floorboards on the other side of the door creaked and she imagined him scratching his head. “Your brother?”

“Yes. My dear brother.”

“Has he left the country? Does he gamble?”

“Forgive me. I haven’t been clear. My brother’s not gone, exactly. I see him every day. But it’s at night … at night.” She touched her hand to her forehead as though she were about to faint. The door jiggled on its hinges.

“At night he disappears,” she whispered. “He’s a member of the Young Londoners Exploratory Society. He says he’s only attending meetings, but sometimes he returns looking crazed and … Mr. Wellington?”

“Yes.”

“Once I saw blood on his clothing.”

“His own blood?”

“He said it was a nosebleed, but I worry. He is, I don’t know … not himself. Sometimes I feel as though I’ve lost him.” Octavia pulled a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. The handkerchief’s corner was monogrammed with a large L.

“There, there. Please don’t cry. I will do my best to discover the source of your brother’s difficulties.”

“So you’ll take on the case?” she said, breathlessly.

“Yes, but first I do have an important question. What is your name?”

“Audrette Featherstone,” she said with a sniff.

“Well, Miss Featherstone, please be so kind as to give me more details about your brother, beginning with a physical description, a list of his habits, and what he does during the day. Oh, and where he lives.”

“I have his address here.” She slid the note she had prepared under the door. She glimpsed a gloved finger as Mr. Wellington snatched the paper. She heard him clear his throat.

“Good. Good. Allow me a moment to fetch my journal.”

Octavia smiled. She had completed her assignment. Her employer would be pleased.

A
cloud of cold mist hung over London’s rooftops and drizzled onto Modo’s back. His large wet hands were clamped around the edge of the roof and he stared down on the city like a gargoyle, rarely blinking. Drops collected on his wide brow and trickled down his face, dripping off his crooked nose. Tharpa had taught him how to remain completely still, even to slow his heart rate.

The mask hanging from his belt was black, his night mask. He didn’t wear it unless he had to, because when he was jumping from rooftop to rooftop, it would sometimes slip and cover his eyes. The night he had nearly smashed his skull open on a crossbeam he learned a valuable lesson.

Directly below, flickering gaslights cast odd shadows across a courtyard. A figure in a frock coat appeared on the far side of the yard and walked toward him. As the man got closer, his pale face became clear. Modo cracked a thin
smile. He’d been following Oscar Featherstone for over an hour, from his home in Highgate to this rooftop above the fancy shops and row houses of Marylebone. When Oscar caught a cab in Highgate, Modo had been forced to leap from roof to roof in pursuit, working up a terrible sweat.

Now Oscar walked past him and through an archway. Modo froze for a few more moments, then scrambled across the shingles, his short bowlegs surprisingly well suited to the steep slopes and changing angles. He leapt, his haversack swinging at his shoulder, and landed near the top of another roof, grasping a lightning rod to steady himself. A startled pigeon flew into the fog.

His target was walking down an alley, so Modo bounded silently alongside and above him, stifling a chuckle. The young gentleman had no idea he was being trailed.

Ever since Mr. Socrates dropped him in the middle of London, Modo had learned to use rooftops to his advantage. In the first frightening minutes after the carriage had pulled away, he’d scampered down several streets, darted through crowds, and finally, startled by the sight of a miserable drunk and his vicious dog, leapt up to a rooftop and huddled in a recess. From there he watched the day unfold. Finally, when night fell again, he crept across the shingles, lapping up gray water from an eaves trough and reaching through a window to steal a pork pie.