The Dark Deeps (6 page)

That night he woke up and listened to Octavia’s slight snore. It was such an odd feeling to have her right in the same room. He had thought about her so often since their first meeting and, in the months that they were apart, between assignments. He had wandered the streets of London,
swung from rooftop to rooftop for hours looking for her, hoping for a glimpse. And now here she was only feet away. What was she dreaming about? Him? The thought made him choke back a laugh. No, she had much better things to dream about. Men with faces that were permanently handsome, for one.

By the fifth day he was able to keep meals down and he felt almost healthy. He found too that he could finally change his face into the one Octavia knew, a man he called the Knight. So, while she was out, he’d managed the transformation, then daubed on sweet-smelling lotions and dressed himself in his finest morning jacket and black trousers.

When she returned, he was sitting at the glass table, playing solitaire.

“Ah, you are alive, and sans mask. This is a momentous day!”

She sat across from Modo and stared at him for so long that he felt nervous sweat beading on his forehead. “Why are you looking at me?”

“You seem different somehow.”

“In what way?”

“I can’t quite put my finger on it. Perhaps you just look older. You might pass for sixteen.”

“Sixteen?” he said with a huff. “I’m twenty!”

“That’s a lie, Modo. One day I’ll figure out your age. For now, though, shall we go out for a stroll and get our morning vittles?” She said this last bit in a falsetto. Modo wasn’t quite sure whom she was imitating, but he smiled.

He stood and nearly fell over. “Ah, you’re still a touch weak on your pins,” she said. “I’ll give you a hand.”

He leaned on Octavia’s shoulder as she helped him out of the cabin. He caught a whiff of his own sweaty stink. Was she wrinkling her nose? If he hadn’t felt so tired, he would have rejoiced at being this close to her. She led him onto the gangway. The wind was brisk and cold. He gazed at the horizon, the greatest uninterrupted distance he’d ever seen. He had peeked out the porthole in their room, but this was his first panoramic view of the Atlantic.

“No wonder ancient sailors believed there were waterfalls at the end of the earth,” he said.

“Yes, it’s something, isn’t it?” Octavia agreed. “Though after five days, I’ve had my fill of endless nothingness. I want to see America, to walk the streets of New York and be a part of the great hubbub! Imagine, New York! Maybe we’ll like it so much we’ll just stay there.”

“Don’t say that! We have an assignment!”

“Ah, you are such a fussy duffer some days! You need a good meal. We’re off to the Paris café.”

She led him along the gangway and to the center of the upper deck. A smokestack loomed above them, sputtering out smoke from the depths of the ship. In the café, several gentlemen and their wives sat at tables, eating breakfast. Modo and Octavia found an empty table near a man reading the
Times
.

“That’s not today’s paper, is it?” Modo quipped.

The man looked up, squinting through his monocle at Modo. “It most certainly is not,” he said, then put his nose back in the paper.

“It must be hard being such a dummacker,” Octavia whispered. “Never a smile or a chuckle. Did you know there’s
a thousand third-class passengers on the decks below us and only a hundred of us up here enjoying the sun?”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Oh, it’s not fair.” Octavia shrugged. “But it’s not a problem we can solve now. We’ve got bigger fish to catch.” She laughed at her own joke.

When the waiter arrived, Modo ordered porridge, while Octavia asked for eggs and a croissant.

“So we search for an agent who, in turn, is searching for a creature from the great depths,” he said; then, remembering all the literature he’d memorized, he recited, “ ‘Full fathom five thy father lies.’ ”

“Shakespeare again, Modo? How trite.”

“It’s not trite!” he hissed, surprising himself at how loud he could be. “It’s art!”

“Pfft!” Octavia waved her hand. “You know my thoughts on Shakespeare. It’s like reading mud.”

He was silent until their breakfast arrived, then asked, “Do you have any guesses about what happened to Mr. Wyle? Do you think he’s been captured?”

“Oh, he’s likely blewed, slewed, and tipsy.”

“What?”

“Drunk. That’s my guess.”

“I can’t believe one of Mr. Socrates’ agents would get drunk. That would be unprofessional.”

“I see it all the time. These older agents get burned out and turn to the bottle.”

“Hmm. Well, we’ll just have to wait and see if your theory is correct. Speaking of theories, what do you think of this
Ictíneo?
Is it a giant fish?”

“I have no idea. Obviously Mr. Socrates doesn’t either.”

“Why do you think Mr. Socrates sent us together?” he asked.

“Because he knows you need someone to look after you.”

“That’s not true!”

“Who pulled you from the Thames? Tharpa? Mr. Socrates? The Queen?”

“It was you, Tavia,” he said. “Must I thank you every day?”

“Yes. Morn, noon, and night. You can take Sundays and Christmas off.” She laughed. “If you really want my best guess, it’s that we’re his youngest agents. He needed two people who could convincingly behave as though they were married. We were his most logical choice. Some of his other agents are so ugly, no one would believe they’d find spouses.”

She grinned, but Modo found it hard to respond in kind. “Yes, I suppose some of them are ugly.”

“I must admit, Modo”—she motioned around the ship—“I like this upper-class life. Perhaps if I found the right rich gentleman, I’d retire.”

“You’ll never retire,” he said, trying not to picture her married off to some rich, rotund nob.

“Perhaps, perhaps not.” She eyed him closely again. “What I still don’t understand is how you change your appearance.”

“Magicians don’t give up their secrets.”

“No, I suppose they don’t, not even to their friends.”

More than anything, Modo wished he could explain why he couldn’t show his face. He would certainly be the ugliest of all the ugly agents.

When they were finished eating, Modo said, “I’m already
worn out. We should retire to our cabin.” Octavia nodded; when they stood up, she bumped into the man with the paper.

“Sorry, so sorry,” she said, giggling. “I find ships so topsy-turvy.”

The man glared at Modo. “You ought to keep a better watch on your wife,” he snapped. “Women are delicate, clumsy creatures.”

“Good day to you,” Modo said.

As they walked back to the cabin, Octavia began to giggle again, and by the time they stepped inside she was full-out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Modo asked, smiling. “That man was rude.”

“He said to keep a better watch on me,” she said between giggles. With that, she produced a golden pocket watch hanging from a fob. “He should have been watching his own watch!”

“You stole it?” Modo cried. “We could get into trouble!”

“That dunderhead will never figure it out. I wish I could be there to see the look on his face when he checks the time.”

And, imagining that, Modo joined her in laughter.

M
odo gazed from the forecastle of the
Abyssinia
out at the port of New York City, the late-November wind sending a chill down his spine. He was wearing his gentleman’s winter clothes and his Knight face. Mr. Warkin, he reminded himself. Octavia—Mrs. Warkin—was at his side, a thick muffler around her neck. Modo’s legs felt as though they were made of India rubber, but he stood as tall as he could, wanting to capture every detail. Steamships from various countries plied the waterway, as did sailing ships and tugboats; they seemed to miss each other by inches. The
Abyssinia
passed a sandstone fort: Castle Garden. It was the immigrant landing depot, where all passengers from foreign ships had to go through an inspection. Line after line of piers filled the southern side of the island, and beyond them were the buildings of the city, some so tall they boggled Modo’s mind. How would he be able to climb them? The
city looked orderly, though, compared with London, each street in a perfect line.

“It really is a wonder,” Octavia said. “It looks so … so new.”

“It is new,” he agreed. “This was farms and a village not long ago.” He searched his mind for any tidbits he remembered from his studies. “There are over a million people here. Maybe more.”

“And one of them is our Mr. Wyle. I do hope he knows how to make tea.”

A short time later they disembarked. Modo saw the third-class passengers waiting in long lines in the cold and dragging all their own luggage. He felt a stab of pity as he and Octavia were directed to the first-class arrival line. Porters carried their portmanteaus, and they were speedily ushered through Castle Garden. He was careful not to cough around the border agents, as he knew they were always on the lookout for passengers with infectious diseases.

Soon they were in a hansom cab, the horse’s hooves clomping on cobblestone streets. The cab itself was much like any he’d seen in London, but the driver wore a bowler. Modo stared out at the people on the street—so many! The men’s hats were shorter than was the fashion in London, and the cut of their jackets was different. Several men wore striped gray trousers with black frock coats. They dressed as if they were going to a picnic, though they were entering the doors to the city hall.

The cab rattled down another street and finally turned onto Lafayette Place, where Modo and Octavia got out and paid the driver with the American money Mr. Socrates had
supplied. Modo grabbed both portmanteaus and stood on the sidewalk, glancing up and down the street. It looked like a safe enough lane, but he plotted an escape route anyway. Over the years Tharpa had drilled that necessity into him.

“Let’s not dillydally,” Octavia said. They went to the address Mr. Socrates had given them, entered the building, and climbed several sets of stairs to the third floor. Modo set down their luggage as Octavia knocked on the door of Mr. Wyle’s apartment. She banged again. No answer.

“He must be out,” Modo said.

“Who are you?” A middle-aged man was coming up the stairs, wheezing with each step. A red handkerchief, neatly folded, peeked out of his front pocket. Modo took a measure of the man. Short, maybe a hundred and seventy pounds, and no weapons in his hands or visible in his jacket.

“He’s the caretaker,” he whispered to Octavia.

“Oh, aren’t you the master detective,” she whispered back. “Look out, Scotland Yard.”

The man Stopped on the landing, removed the handkerchief, and dabbed at his balding forehead. “Are you here to see Mr. Wyle?”

“Indeed, we’re here for our honeymoon,” Modo said. “We had intended to surprise him.”

“He’s my brother,” Octavia continued. “We’re visiting from London.”

“You are much younger than Mr. Wyle.”

“I’m the youngest of a large family.”

“Ah, well, I should introduce myself. I’m Jonathon Trottier, the caretaker here.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Modo said, extending his
hand. Trottier’s palm was sweaty, his grip weak. “We are Mr. and Mrs. Warkin.”

“Well, I have some bad news. I’m sorry to inform you”—he took in a wheezy lungful of air—“that Mr. Wyle has passed away.”

Octavia started back. “No!”

“How?” Modo asked.

“He was found in his room nearly two weeks ago. I’m afraid … that … he was murdered.”

“Oh, dear Lord! How horrible!” Octavia was looking suitably pale. “Murdered? Why would anyone want to hurt him?”

“My dear, my dear.” Modo embraced her. He looked at Mr. Trottier. “Did they catch the murderer?”

“No. Not that I know of. And I follow the papers and have had contact with the inspectors.”

Modo patted Octavia’s back as she wept quietly. “Was it a robbery?”

“No. There seems to be no reason, but another man was murdered at the Astor Library on the same day. The authorities say there may be a connection.” He patted his forehead again. “I was told the police couldn’t find any next of kin for Mr. Wyle.”

“We had fallen out of touch,” Octavia said, lifting her head from Modo’s shoulder. “He was … a quiet sort.”

“He was, at that. I’ll let you into his apartment. It, uh”—he paused to wheeze—“it has been properly cleaned, but perhaps, Mrs. Warkin, you would prefer not to be in the place where the foul deed took place.”

Octavia sniffed and Patted at her eyes with a handkerchief. “No. I must see his room, if only to believe that he is gone.”

Mr. Trottier produced a set of keys and opened the door. It was a smallish apartment, with a window that let in the morning light. The furnishings were spare; the walls bore no artwork or hangings. Octavia motioned to several books on the shelves and whispered, “He always liked reading.”

The man stood at the door, and it became clear that he had no intention of leaving. It would be impossible to find clues under his watchful eyes.

Octavia began to weep impressively, leaning on the table. Modo put a hand on her shoulder and she turned and rested her head against him. Her hair smelled of perfume. “Darling,” he said, the word slipping out so easily, “this is too much. Too much for your delicate spirit.” He turned toward the caretaker. “Would you be able to bring us some tea, Mr. Trottier? My wife needs something warm to soothe her.”

“I can make coffee. Would that do?”

“We would appreciate that so very much.”

The moment he was out the door, Octavia lifted her head, wiped at her tears, and began searching through cupboards. “Be quick, Modo. That old duffer could return any moment.”

“Yes, dah-ling,” he said, but swallowed nervously. He didn’t exactly enjoy picking through a dead man’s possessions. “So who killed Wyle?” he asked, his voice breaking.

“The enemy, of course,” Octavia answered in a whisper. “Sadly, that doesn’t narrow down our suspects. Perhaps the French knew he’d been following them.”

“But a man was killed at the library.”

“Wyle could have killed him. Then someone followed Wyle to his apartment.”