The Osiris Curse (9 page)

They returned to Tweed's house on Whitechapel Street. Despite Octavia's protestations to the contrary, it was the safest place to be. Because although many would class Whitechapel as the home of the morally dubious—i. e., murderers, thieves, pickpockets and the like—one thing you could say about the people here was that they looked out for each other. If you were accepted in Whitechapel, you were family. And the people of Whitechapel looked after family. Any unknowns spotted lurking around would have questions to answer, questions asked with cudgels and steel-toed boots.

And anyone spotted wearing those ludicrous Egyptian masks would have a lifespan shorter than a drunk toff who happened to take a wrong turn.

Tweed unlocked the door and stepped aside to allow Octavia in. She moved along the hall and into the massive room that took up the whole ground floor of the building.

Tweed followed her. Now that Barnaby had gone all respectable, the house was pretty much Tweed's. Barnaby rarely came home before eleven and he was gone long before Tweed managed to crawl out of bed in the morning.

Tweed actually missed the old days, when he and Barnaby scraped through life by the skin of their teeth. When they would return home after a successful con with a fish supper wrapped in greasy newspaper and they would count the money they'd earned and wonder how long they could make it last.

It wasn't right, what they had done. He
knew
that. And he'd talked to Barnaby about stopping before the whole Lazarus affair had changed everything. But he still missed it. Simpler times.

And
exciting
times. Life was never boring. Not like the last few months.

Tweed quickly scanned the room, making sure he hadn't left anything embarrassing lying around. Octavia had once described the room as the workshop of a mad scientist who'd escaped from Bedlam. Tweed had quite liked that description. Oddities scoured from junk shops, street markets—even rubbish heaps—were strewn across the shelves and desks. Among the bric-a-brac were jars of mummified animals, a two-headed snake, a suit of black armor, and a huge paper dragon head that hung from the ceiling, scavenged from the Chinese quarter recently when they celebrated their New Year.

His latest project—a model of the new Big Ben made completely from matchsticks—took pride of place on the table in the center of the room. It had taken him ages to finish it.

“That's new,” said Octavia, bending down to study it.

“I know. Amazing, isn't it?”

“It's certainly…
something
.”

Tweed lit the lamps, then stoked the fire, adding a few more logs to get the warmth spreading through the room. He looked over
his shoulder and saw Octavia inspecting the model with a look of distaste.

“Your problem is that you don't know good art.”

“Oh, so this is art, is it?”

“Indeed it is.”

Octavia straightened up and pointed at the couch where Tweed usually slept. Facing it were four wooden chairs, and on those chairs were the old ventriloquist dolls that Barnaby collected.

“Have you been talking to these dolls?”

She said it as a joke, but Tweed's face flushed and he quickly moved them away, putting them back on their stools beneath the window.

“You
have
, haven't you? You've been speaking to the dolls. Oh, Tweed, that's not healthy. You know that, don't you?”

“It's not as if I expect them to talk back,” he said defensively. “It just gets a little…quiet around here. That's all.”

“Have you considered a pet?”

“I…” Tweed frowned. He hadn't, actually. Why hadn't he considered a pet? Nothing too messy. A parrot perhaps. Something like that.

“Thank you for the suggestion. I'll take it on board.”

“I'm glad,” said Octavia, “because, seriously, this is…it's
odd
, Tweed. Even for you.”

Tweed decided he didn't want to talk about that anymore. Instead, he wheeled a massive blackboard into the middle of the room.

“Are you ready?”

“What are we doing?”

“Discussing what we know. Trying to figure some things out.”

“Oh. I see. Go ahead, sir.”

Tweed looked down at the chalk in his hand and the blackboard behind him. “Funny.”

He turned and wrote on the board.

Tesla killed. Death ray plans stolen.

Tweed tapped the board. “Obviously these plans have been taken for nefarious purposes, agreed?”

“Agreed. But it wasn't just death ray plans. It was blueprints for different weapons.”

“Point noted.” He wrote:
Sekhem
, circled the name, and drew a long arrow to his first point.

He looked at Octavia. “Yes?”

She nodded.

“And we are thinking Sekhem is part of a secret society, one that uses that Osiris symbol as a means of identification.”

Octavia nodded. “And they are the same people who killed Stackpole. They're linked by the Osiris symbol. They tortured him to find out about this map he had.”

“Agreed. So what's so special about it? It can't just be about money, can it? Selling ancient treasures?”

“Why not? People have done less to get rich. Egyptian artifacts would sell for a pretty penny.”

“But that has absolutely nothing to do with Tesla's blueprints for super weapons.”

Octavia frowned. “True.”

Tweed wrote down:
Molock?
Then he added another few question marks and underlined them for good measure.

“Thoughts?” he said. “Because it's pretty obvious that Molock and Sekhem were not the best of friends. Did Molock want Tesla and the plans for himself? Is Molock a part of this cult as well?”

“And how does this relate to my mother?”

“Of course! I'd forgotten that!” In response to Octavia's dark look, he added, “Sorry. So—how does this relate to your mother?” Tweed paced in front of the board. “Did she perhaps know something about this secret society?”

“It's possible. I mean, there was no mention of this group when we were looking into the Lazarus affair. But it's obvious there's
some
link. Molock took my mother out of the Ministry prison using a false name. He turns up here on the night Tesla is killed and the plans for his super weapons stolen.”

“It was Sekhem who brought Molock back to London,” said Tweed. “He said as much himself. Molock found out what he was planning and wanted to stop him. But why?”

Too many question marks and not enough answers
, thought Tweed. He drew the symbol of the secret society on the board.

“We need to find out what this is. Who these cultists really are. What they stand for.”

“I agree. Only, not right now. I need to get to
The Times.
I have a story about some missing scientists that needs to be proofed. “

After Tweed dropped Octavia off, he headed back to Stackpole's flat. He wasn't sure why. It was a hunch, a feeling that they had missed something.

There was no sign of any cultists around Wilton Crescent, which was something of a relief. Tweed entered the house and climbed the stairs to Stackpole's flat. The door was closed, but when Tweed gave it a little shove it swung open.

Tweed slipped inside and pulled the door closed behind him. He did his best to ignore the body to his right and moved to the center of the room. The curtains were billowing in the cold breeze. Glass crunched underfoot. Tweed slowly turned in a circle, letting his eyes unfocus, just letting them fall wherever they would.

He stopped.

There was something different. On the floor behind the door
was an expensive-looking yellow envelope. That hadn't been there earlier on! Tweed hurried over and picked it up. Stackpole's name and address were written on the envelope in elaborate handwriting.

But something about the handwriting made him pause. He'd seen it somewhere before.

Tweed headed to the desk. He picked a random sheet of paper and held it next to the envelope.

It was the same handwriting.

Stackpole was sending himself letters. Why?

Tweed ripped the envelope open. Inside were two pieces of thick card. The first was gold-trimmed and had a lot of official looking stamps on it, plus the words:

The airship Albion awaits the pleasure of your company.
Stackpole. H. Mr.
Room 56.

Tweed frowned. He turned the card over, then read it again. A ticket for the maiden voyage of the airship
Albion
? This just got odder and odder. Why would Stackpole want to travel on the
Albion
?

Well,
besides
the fact that it really was the most sought-after ticket of the season. But Stackpole was an archeologist. What interest would he have in that kind of thing?

Look around, Tweed.

True, Stackpole
did
seem to like living a first-class lifestyle. Tweed thought back to the newspaper report Octavia had written. Wasn't the
Albion
stopping in Egypt? Perhaps Stackpole planned on disembarking there, to find his mysterious archeological dig.

But then, why had Stackpole sent himself the ticket? Was he really that paranoid?

It's not paranoia when they're really out to get you, though, is it?

Stackpole had a sense he was in danger. He posted the ticket to himself so that if anyone searched his flat they wouldn't know he was heading back to Egypt.

Quite clever, really.

Had he done the same thing with this mysterious map?

Tweed searched the floor but there were no more letters. He checked around the desk as well, but he was out of luck.

He
did
find a whole stack of the same yellow envelopes, though.

Tweed pulled out the second piece of card from the envelope. It was a sort of introduction and welcome to those who had just mortgaged off their firstborn children in order to buy their tickets.

A voyage of discovery awaits you!
Join us for the maiden launch of the airship Albion, a true miracle
of science, designed by Nikola Tesla himself.

Prepare to be filled with admiration…
Struck down with stupefaction…
You will be speechless with wonderment, and that's a promise. A
thrilling adventure is yours for the taking, where the world will
unfold beneath you and your life will never be the same again!

Launch date:
10
^th
of February.
Time of departure:
12:00 p.m.

Tweed stared at the card. Something about the words tickled the back of his brain. Like he'd seen them somewhere before…

His eyes widened and he fumbled inside his pockets until he found what he was looking for. The piece of burned paper he had
picked up back in Tesla's factory. He held it up next to Stackpole's card, lining up the words.

…ate:
…uary.
…ture:
…m.

Launch date:
The 10
^th
of January.
Time of departure:
12:00 p.m.

They matched. The piece of burned card Molock had dropped was the same one that came with a ticket for the
Albion
. Which meant Molock
also
had a ticket for the airship's maiden voyage.

Tweed's mind worked furiously. Why? Did he want to talk to Stackpole? Did he want to
kill
Stackpole?

Or was it just a coincidence?

With a rush of excitement, Tweed realized it didn't matter. Molock was going to be on the
Albion
and Molock was the one who knew where Octavia's mother was. It was as simple as that.

When did the airship launch? He checked the ticket again. The 10th of February.

Tomorrow.

Tweed's mind raced. He had a lot to do tonight. A lot of preparations to make.

One thing was for sure, though. Boredom certainly wasn't going to be an issue anymore.

He and Octavia were going on a trip.

For the second day running, Octavia was rudely yanked from her sleep by someone knocking at the door. She grunted in irritation and tried to block the sounds out by burying her head beneath the pillow.

It didn't work. A few seconds later a voice was shouting below her window.

“Nightingale! Get up!”

Octavia groaned. Was she never to get a proper sleep? What time was it anyway? She rolled over and looked at the clock. 6:30! What was the idiot thinking? And on a Saturday!

You are going to pay for this, Mr. Tweed
, she thought, throwing back the covers. She was going to let him know exactly what she thought about having her sleep disturbed.

She stomped out of bed, pausing only to pull on her dressing gown. She clumped down the stairs and yanked open the door.

“What do you want?” she snapped. “It's six thirty in the bloody morning.”

“I know,” said Tweed, utterly oblivious to her anger. He pushed past her and entered the house. “We don't have much time.”

Octavia stared out at the snow blanketing the pavement, slowly counting to ten. She then closed the door and turned to face him. She frowned. He was still wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Admittedly, that didn't really mean much when it came to Tweed, but his eyes were shadowed and had a feverish glint to them.

“Have you slept?”

“What? No. No time.”

“Why?” said Octavia suspiciously. “Why is there no time?”

Tweed held out a coin to her. “Flip this.”

Octavia looked at the coin in bewilderment, then took it from him. She inspected it. Just an ordinary Crown.

“Call it and toss the coin.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Octavia sighed. “Heads,” she said, and flipped the coin. She let it fall to the carpet, where it landed head side up.

“Bugger,” said Tweed, staring at it in dismay.

“Tweed, what is going on?”

Tweed dragged his eyes away from the coin. There was horror in his face, as if Octavia's coin toss had sealed a terrible fate for him.

“Tweed. Tell me what's going on. Right now.”

“Yes. Right. Of course. After I dropped you off at the paper yesterday, I went back to Stackpole's.”

“Without me?” she said incredulously.

“Yes. Sorry. But it was a hunch. I just felt we'd missed something.”

“And had we?”

“No. But this was waiting on the doormat.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope.

Octavia took it from him and read its contents. Finally, she looked up at him, confused. “He was traveling on the
Albion
?”

Tweed nodded. Then he took out the burned card and handed it to her. “Molock dropped this at the warehouse.”

Octavia examined them both. When she realized what she was looking at her breath quickened with excitement.

“When does it—?”

“Five hours from now.”

“And the coin?”

Tweed picked the coin up, examining it in disappointment. “Yes. The coin. The way I see it, we need to be on board that airship. But we only have one ticket. So I've had a busy night.”

“What have you done?” said Octavia, already dreading the answer.

“Well. I tracked down the list of employees on the
Albion
, specifically focusing on the wait staff. They're the ones able to get everywhere, and
also
the ones the rich ignore the most. I found out the name of the head of the wait staff. I got his address and paid him a visit.”

“You…paid him a visit?”

“Yes.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“Yes. Please stop interrupting. I slipped some arsenic into his drinking water—”

Octavia held up a hand. Tweed frowned and stopped talking. “What?”

“You put
arsenic
into his drinking water?”

“Yes. I just said that.”

“Arsenic is a poison.”

“Only in large doses. I just gave him a drop or two. Enough to make him sick for a few days. Now, here's the clever bit. I then broke into the offices of the company that owns the
Albion
, and I fiddled with their paperwork.”

“I…” Octavia shook her head in amazement. Breaking and entering. Poisoning. What was next? Murder? “…No, never mind. Carry on.”

“I tracked down their employee records and put down a new name for the secondary head of staff. A certain E. S. Holmes.”

“Which is…?”

“Well, it looks like it's me now, doesn't it?”

Realization dawned. “Wait, that's what the coin toss was for? You were seeing who was going to get the cabin and who was going to have to work?”

“Fairest way,” replied Tweed.

Octavia was rather angry at this. He hadn't told her
why
she was
flipping the coin. She preferred to know when she was leaving her fate in the hands of chance.

She was about to berate him for this, then forced herself to stop. If she protested, he might try to settle it another way. And she might lose. Which meant she would have to work as a servant on board the
Albion
, something she really didn't want to do.

No, perhaps just this once she would let it slide.

There was a knock at the door. Tweed gripped her by the shoulders and moved her aside. “Ah. This will be for E. S. Holmes.”

“Yes, about that—you used Holmes as a false name?”

Tweed shrugged. “It amused me.”

“And you gave my address?”

“Had to. Couldn't have Holmes living in Whitechapel, could I? The
Albion
wouldn't hire him if he did.”

Tweed opened the door to reveal a flustered looking man peering at a file while at the same time trying to straighten his spectacles.

He squinted at Tweed. “Er, hello, young man. Is your father in?”

“Father?” said Tweed, offense radiating from every pore of his body. “This is my house sir! My own!”

“Oh.” The man peered at the file, then stepped forward to get a better look at Tweed. “Mr…. Holmes?”

“The one and only, sir. What can I do for you?”

“Er…it's just…” he tilted the file to the light. “You're supposed to be twenty-seven years old.”

“Yes? And?”

“Well you don't look it.”

“You should see the state of the portrait in the attic,” said Tweed, and winked. Octavia rolled her eyes.

“Ah, yes. I see. A jest. I'm sorry. I don't have time for jests right now. I have a bit of an emergency on my hands. You are listed here as a secondary head of wait staff for the
Albion
. Is that correct?”

“It is indeed, sir. And proud to be.”

“Well, I'm afraid you've been called to duty. The
Albion
's head of staff has fallen sick, and you seem to be his replacement…”

Even as the man spoke these words he frowned, as if wondering how they could possibly be true. But Tweed stepped forward and energetically shook the man's hand.

“Sir, it will be an honor! An
honor
, I say. I'll report to the
Albion
immediately. Fret not, dear sir. I will see to it that those layabouts from under the stairs are met with a firm hand and clear instructions. You know what these cleaning staff are like. If they've not got their fingers in the belongings of the guests, they're dilly-dallying in broom cupboards and knoffling in empty bedrooms.”

“Kn…knoffling?” said the man, clearly aghast at this heretofore unseen world of the serving staff. “What does that mean?”

“I wouldn't want to upset you, sir!” said Tweed. “A man of your status, why should your mind be sullied by such things? But don't worry, I shall report for duty within the hour. Good day, sir!”

Tweed closed the door on the befuddled man and turned to Octavia with a grin. Octavia gave him a polite round of applause.

“Not bad, eh?”

“Not bad. Now get out of my house. I've got to pack my cases.” She held out her hand. “Before you go, the ticket.”

Tweed reluctantly handed her the ticket and turned to the door. As he stepped outside, Octavia called after him, “And no knoffling with the staff!”

The heavens themselves had cleared for the maiden voyage of the
Albion
. Londoners celebrated the break in the grey clouds, greeting the icy blue sky with joy and laughter, as if reunited with a long-lost relative.

The
Albion
had been towed to Trafalgar Square overnight. It hung above the National Gallery, mooring wires pegged around the perimeter of the large plaza. The square was festooned with bunting, Union Jack flags strung between Nelson's Column and the even larger statue of Sir Charles Babbage. The fountains had been fed food coloring, and they now spewed red and blue water into the air.

Children tried to swing on the wires holding the
Albion
steady, but were chased away by stern-faced guards. And yet even these custodians, usually so tired and irritated with the naughtiness of little ones, couldn't help but smile behind their thick mustaches and beards. It was a great day for the Empire. A great day for Her Majesty.

Octavia disembarked from the hansom cab that had brought her from her home. At least, she tried to. Against her better judgment, she was wearing a dress, a tight, uncomfortable, billowing dress. With an accompanying umbrella. Made of cloth. Honestly. What was the point? Was everyone in the manufacture of women's clothing intent on making them as uncomfortable as possible?

Octavia studied the massive airship while one of the
Albion
automatons untied her travel cases from the cab. It really was a sight to behold. It wasn't an airship in the traditional sense. It used the same idea—airbags filled with gas—to keep it afloat, but the bags were attached to what at first looked like an actual ship from the ocean.

It was how she imagined Noah's Ark would look. A rectangular structure easily half a mile long and a quarter that in width. The scale was such that many critics thought it would crash back to earth within its first hour of voyage.

The automaton picked up her bags and led her around the edge of the square, heading for a wrought iron arch that had been erected on the west side of the plaza. Beyond the arch was a long line of ornate fencing and a red carpet that led all the way to the ornithopters that ferried the passengers up to the airship.

A woman in her forties was pushing an old man in a wheelchair ahead of her. Octavia slowed her walk while the woman fumbled for their tickets and handed them over.

“Very good, madam,” said the ticket checker. He looked to be in his early twenties and was dressed in a smart navy blue uniform with red epaulets down the arms and legs. His hair was swept back severely from his face. He was quite handsome, in a soldiering type of way.

He bowed when Octavia approached. “Good afternoon, Miss. And without sounding impertinent, may I just say that you've given my eyes some much needed relief?”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. I'm sure they're all very pleasant people, but you're the first person I've seen under the age of thirty-five. I was beginning to feel like a child in school again. The name's Ludgate, by the way. Edward Ludgate.”

“Should you be talking so freely to one of the guests, Mr. Ludgate?”

“Oh, I think I'm safe. You wouldn't turn me in, would you?”

Octavia smothered a grin. “You are impertinent, sir. And you presume too much.”

Ludgate winked at her. “Then I present my most humble apologies, Miss. Will you accept them?”

“I don't know,” said Octavia. “I'll think about it.”

“What's the hold up?” called a voice from behind.

Octavia turned around to see a tall, wrinkled man with the most voluminous side whiskers Octavia had ever seen sprouting from his cheeks. “All right granddad,” she said in her more normal mode of conversation. “Hold your horses.”

The man's eyes widened in outrage. Octavia glared at him then turned back to Ludgate and presented her ticket. He was staring at
her with no small amount of wonder in his eyes. He punched a hole in her ticket, then stamped it and handed it back. Octavia returned his earlier wink. “Soldier on, Mr. Ludgate. Soldier on.”