by Arthur Slade
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.”
14
Revelations
“Stay 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.
15
Tinctures and Whispers
The 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.
Hands grabbed him, set him upright in knee-deep water. No, not water he decided as he took a step. Too thick. Sewage. The hands half pushed, half dragged him through the muck for several minutes. Then he stumbled across solid ground. A door closed. It smelled only slightly better, wherever they were.
An aristocratic male voice asked, “Why is this boy here?”
“’E’s me son,” the man beside Oppie said, shoving him forward. “Pay him no nevermind.”
Another posh voice said, “Why is he wearing a sack?”
Someone cut the cord around his neck and ripped the sack off Oppie’s head, taking a clump of hair with it. “Better, then?” the man asked. The lamplight blinded Oppie. The doctor looked down at him, his eyes magnified by lenses, so he resembled a large insect. Behind him, several men in fancy coats stood at the end of the room. Two were staring at him, but the others gazed off into space. Nearby, leaning over a desk was a red-haired woman in a black jacket and trousers. A woman in trousers? He’d never seen such a thing in his life.
One of the young men seemed familiar. Oppie couldn’t read, but he collected drawings and photographs of the Royals, pasting them to his wall with Queen Victoria at the top. The man looked for all the world like Prince Albert, the Queen’s grandson and the second in line to the throne. Why would a prince be in the sewer?
The doctor reached out and patted Oppie’s shoulder. “You look frightened.”
“I’m not,” he spouted, though in truth he was about to wet his britches.
“Good. A brave young man. Now, I have work to do with these gentlemen. Please excuse me.”
He walked over to a series of beakers being heated by candles. Using tongs, he lifted one, tapped the glass with his finger, then went over to the young gentlemen standing next to the prince. While the prince’s skin was noticeably pale, the gentleman looked tanned and robust. “It’s your turn, Mr. Featherstone.”
The young man blinked repeatedly. “I’m not certain I want to drink it now,” he replied.
“Come, come, it’s a very important experiment. Your companions have agreed to participate and you have already signed the papers. You will go down in history for this.”
“Why don’t I remember coming to this room? I thought we were going to study the stars.”
“The stars?” A derisive huff came from the woman at the table. “Be a man, Mr. Featherstone. Your father would be ashamed of you.”
“I’m not afraid,” he said and took the flask, gulping down its contents. He grimaced and his hand went straight to his head. A look of absolute horror crossed his face, an expression so hideous that it took Oppie’s breath away. Featherstone’s legs buckled, but he was caught by one of the doctor’s henchmen.
“You’ll find your legs again in a moment, Mr. Featherstone,” the doctor said, “and your mind will soon be as clear as blank paper.” A few moments later, as predicted, Featherstone did stand on his own. There was something odd about his eyes.
The other gentlemen watched all of this impassively. Prince Albert took his portion next, responding exactly as Featherstone had. Soon all the young gentlemen were seated along one wall, their eyes glazed over. Oppie was surprised at how still they sat.
The henchman led Featherstone to the woman at the desk. She spoke into the young man’s ear, reading something from the papers on her desk. Oppie couldn’t hear what she said, but when she was finished, Featherstone nodded and stood by the door. He looked, to Oppie, like a dog waiting to be let out.
One by one, all of the young men were taken over to the woman, who whispered into their ears. None of them said a word, and by the end six stood in line behind Featherstone. “They are ready to go home, Mr. Fuhr,” the woman said to the large man. He nodded and the gentlemen followed him through the door and out of the room. Prince Albert, oblivious to all of this, was left sleeping in the corner.
The woman stood and stretched, revealing that she had a metal hand. Oppie couldn’t keep his eyes off of it. “Well, Cornelius, seven arrows have been loosed. In this alone you have accomplished more than any chemist in history. I am proud of you.”
“It’s a small thing, truly,” the doctor said. “And we are only half done.”
“Yes. Half done. You are always dedicated to the task.” She shook an admonishing metal finger at him. “You work too hard. But soon we will rest. May I have my sparrow back?”
“Of course.” He lifted one of the sparrows from his shoulder and handed it to her. She placed it on her own.
“Ah, this is one of the loveliest gifts you’ve given me. Do you need help with the boy?”
“Yes, just a moment’s help.”
The doctor and the woman returned to Oppie’s side. The second sparrow still clung to the man’s shoulder. Without even looking Oppie in the eye, the woman cut the ropes with a knife, lifted him, and dragged him into a second, smaller chamber. She placed him against the wall, where she snapped manacles around his wrists and ankles. Oppie thrashed about wildly.
“It’s only natural to fear what you don’t understand,” the doctor said, and his bird chirped in agreement. He touched Oppie’s shoulder with a cool hand. “Ah, good, you’re already strong and your bones are well developed. When you tire of fighting me, I will give you some of the … uh … magic potion that my young friends just received. But it will be a larger dose and it will make you much stronger. I know how young boys wish they were stronger! After all, when England’s children rise up to strike against the old blackguards who keep them down, you will need to be strong. So, when you are ready to cooperate, my boy, we can begin.”
16
; Secrets and Tales
A cutlass was displayed on the wall alongside a black bear’s head, its mouth open in a roar, its marble eyes twinkling in the morning light. Below it was a brass bed, the sheets luxuriant and thick. And under them, snoring with a slight wheeze, was Modo.
As he was coming to he sensed someone entering the room, and heard the squeak of leather as the visitor sat in a nearby chair. Seconds passed and then something poked him in the shoulder.
Modo opened one eye, then the other. His eyes focused and widened in surprise. “Mr. Socrates!” he exclaimed. He sat up, ignoring the pain in his chest. “You—how did you get here?” He looked around. “Where am I?”
“You’re in Towerhouse. This is one of my London safe houses. I figured it was best to keep you off the streets for the next while. You have stirred up a hornets’ nest.”
“Hornets’ nest?” It took Modo a moment to recall a few details from the previous night. “It was more than a hornets’ nest, sir.” When he moved his right arm to feel for his mask, he saw that his burn marks and injuries had been covered by a thick, green paste that smelled of mint. “What’s on my arm?”
“Tharpa treated your wounds. Some mystical poultice. I’m certain it will heal you—at least it hides your smell.”
Good ol’ Tharpa, Modo thought. He’s here! Modo felt his cheek; his face had reverted to its original shape. There were scabs where the woman with the metal hand had scratched him. “How did I get here?”
“Tharpa carried you. With the help of Octavia.”
“You know Octavia?”
“Of course. She works for me.” Mr. Socrates tapped the bed with his walking stick. “You should be putting some of this together yourself, Modo. Octavia assumed you were also my agent and that I would want to help you. She brought you here by cab, telling the cabbie that this was the home of a doctor. And you do need help. Judging by your breathing you have broken a rib, but there’s no damage to your lungs. You cough up ashes, not blood.”
Modo rubbed his forehead and came away with a soot-stained hand. “How long have I been unconscious?”