“I think it might have had something to do with the OBO.”
This comment brought Alexia up short. “What did you just say?”
“The Order of the Brass Octopus—you must have heard of it.”
Lady Maccon blinked in shock and put her hand to her stomach where the infant-inconvenience kicked out in surprise as well. “Of course I have heard of it, Ivy. The question is, how have you?”
“Oh, Alexia, I have been working for Madame Lefoux for positively ages. She has been traveling overmuch of late, and her appearance can be very distracting, but I am not so unobservant as all that. I am well aware that when she is in town, she undertakes fewer hat-orientated activities than hat-focused ones. She runs an underground contrivance chamber as I understand it.”
“She told you?”
“Not exactly. If Madame Lefoux prefers to keep things a secret, who am I to gainsay her? But I did look inside some of those hatboxes of hers, and they do not always contain hats. I did inquire as to the specifics, and Madame Lefoux assured me it was better if I not become involved. However, Alexia, I wouldn’t want you to think me ignorant. Tunny and I do talk about such things, and I have eyes enough in my head to observe, even if I do not always understand.”
“I apologize for doubting you, Ivy.”
Ivy looked wistful. “Perhaps one day you, too, will take me into your confidence.”
“Oh, Ivy, I—”
Ivy held up a hand. “When you are quite ready, of course.”
Alexia sighed. “Speaking of which, you must excuse me. This news about the ghost, it is of no little importance. I must consult my husband’s Beta immediately.”
Ivy looked about. “But it is daylight.”
“Sometimes even werewolves are awake during the day. When the situation demands it. Conall is asleep, so Professor Lyall is probably awake and at his duties.”
“Is a cephalopod so dire as all that?”
“I am afraid it might be. If you would excuse me, Ivy?”
“Of course.”
“I shall inform Floote about the little matter of my patronage. He will set you up right and proper with the necessary pecuniary advance.”
Ivy grabbed at Lady Maccon’s hand as she passed. “Oh, thank you, Alexia.”
Alexia was as good as her word, going immediately to Floote and issuing him with instructions. Then, in the interest of economy and perhaps saving herself a trip to BUR, she casually asked, “Is there a local OBO chapter in this area? I understand it is quite the secret society but thought perhaps you might know.”
Floote gave her a meditative look. “Yes, madam, a block over. I noticed the marking just after you began visiting with Lord Akeldama.”
“Marking, Floote?”
“Yes, madam. There is a brass octopus on the door handle. Number eighty-eight.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The Lair of the Octopus
Number 88 was not a very impressive domicile. In fact, it was one of the least elegant in the neighborhood. While its immediate neighbors were nothing when compared to Lord Akeldama’s abode, they still put their very best brick forward. They acknowledged, in an entirely unspoken way, that they were denizens of the most fashionable residential area in London and that architecture and grounds should earn this accolade. Number eighty-eight was altogether shabby by comparison. Its paint was not exactly peeling, but it was faded, and its garden was overgrown with herbs gone to seed and lettuces that had bolted.
Scientists, thought Alexia as she made her way up the front steps and pulled the bell rope. She wore her worst dress, altered to compensate for her stomach and made of a worsted fabric somewhere between dishwater brown and green. She couldn’t remember why she’d originally purchased the poor sad thing—probably to upset her mother. She had even borrowed one of Felicity’s ugly shawls, despite the fact that the day was too warm for such a conceit. With the addition of a full white mob cap and a very humble expression, she looked every inch the housekeeper she wished to portray.
The butler who answered her knock seemed to feel the same, for he did not even question her status. His demeanor was one of pedantic pleasantness, exacerbated by a round jolliness customarily encountered among bakers or butchers not butlers. He sported a stout neck and a head of wildly bushy white hair that called to mind nothing so much as a cauliflower.
“Good afternoon,” said Alexia, bobbing a curtsy. “I heard your establishment was in need of new staff, and I have come to inquire about the position.”
The butler looked her up and down, pursing his lips. “We did lose our cook several weeks ago. We have been doing fine with a temporary, and we certainly don’t wish to take on someone in your condition. You can understand that.” It was said kindly, but most firmly, and meant to discourage.
Alexia stiffened her spine. “Oh, yes, sir. My lying-in shouldn’t be a day over a fortnight, and I do make the best calf’s-feet jelly you will ever taste.” Alexia took a gamble with that. The butler looked like the kind of man who liked jelly, his shape being of the jelly inclination already.
She was right. His squinty eyes lit with pleasure. “Oh, well, if that is the case. Have you references?”
“The very best, from Lady Maccon herself, sir.”
“Indeed? How comprehensive is your knowledge of herbs and spices? Our gentlemen residents, you understand, are mostly bachelors. Their table requirements are simple, but their extracurricular requests can be a tad esoteric.”
Alexia pretended shock.
The butler made haste to correct any miscommunication. “Oh, no, no, nothing like that. They simply may ask for quantities of dried herbs for their experiments. They are all men of intellect.”
“Ah. As to that, my knowledge is unequaled by any I have ever met before or since.” Alexia was rather enjoying bragging about things about which she knew absolutely nothing.
“I should find that very hard to believe. Our previous cook was a renowned expert in the medicinal arts. However, do come in, Mrs.?.?.?.??”
Alexia scrabbled for a name, then came up with the best she could at short notice. “Floote. Mrs. Floote.”
This butler didn’t seem to know her butler, for his expression did not alter at the improbability of such a pairing as Floote and Alexia. He merely ushered her inside and led her down and into the kitchen.
It was like no kitchen Alexia had ever seen. Not that she had spent much time in kitchens, but she felt she was at least familiar with the general expectations of such a utilitarian room. This one was pristinely clean and boasted not only the requisite number of pots and pans, but also steam devices, one or two massive measuring buckets, and what looked like glass jars filled with specimen samples lining the counters. It resembled the combination of a bottling factory, a brewery, and Madame Lefoux’s contrivance chamber.
Alexia made no attempt to disguise her astonishment—any normal housekeeper would be as surprised as she upon seeing such a strange cooking arena. “My goodness, what a peculiar arrangement of furnishings and utensils.”
They were alone in the kitchen, and it was just that time of the afternoon when most household staff had a brief moment to satisfy their own concerns before the tea was called for.
“Ah, yes, our previous cook had some interest in other endeavors apart from meal preparation. She was a kind of intellectual herself, if you would allow such a thing in a female. My employers sometimes encourage aberrant behavior.”
Alexia, having spent a goodly number of years immersed in books and having attended many Royal Society presentations, not to mention her intimacy with Madame Lefoux, could indeed allow such things in females, but in her current guise forbore to say so. Instead, she looked around in silence. Only to notice a prevalence of octopuses. They were positively everywhere, stamped onto jar lids and labels, etched into the handles of iron skillets, engraved onto the sides of copper pots, and even pressed into the top of a vat of soap set out to harden on a sideboard.
“My, someone certainly has an affection for cephalopods.” Alexia waddled over, all casualness, to examine a row of very small bottles of dark brown glass and mysterious content. They were corked up, each cork boasting a small glass octopus pressed into it in a range of colors. Otherwise, there was no mention made of the content.
She reached to pick one up only to find that the butler, in the silent manner customary to the breed, had sidled up next to her. “I should not, Mrs. Floote, if I were you. Our previous cook had an interest in rather more hazardous forms of distillery and preservation as well.”
“What happened to the good lady, sir?” Alexia asked with a forced lightness in tone.
“She stopped. If I were you, I should take particular care with that yellow octopus there.”
Alexia moved hurriedly away from the whole row of little bottles, suddenly feeling that they were precariously placed on their shelf.
The butler looked her up and down. “There are many stairs in this house, you understand, Mrs. Floote? You will not be able to remain in only the kitchen. How am I to be convinced you are capable of your duties?”
Alexia seized upon this as a perfect opportunity to further her investigations. “Well, I am interested in seeing the accommodations, should you choose to engage my services. If you would be so kind as to show me to the staff quarters, I can demonstrate my mobility.”
The butler nodded and gestured her toward a back staircase that wound up through the house to the attic apartments. The room he eventually shepherded her into was a tiny, cramped cell that still contained some remnants of its previous occupant, just as Alexia had hoped. More small brown bottles and a few curious-looking vials lay about. A handkerchief was spread across the windowsill, upon which bunches of herbs lay drying.
“Of course, we will clear out these quarters prior to new occupation.” The butler curled his lip as he looked around.
Small cloth-bound notebooks were scattered here and there; several were quite dusty with neglect. There were also bits of scrap paper and even what looked to be some kind of ledger.
“Your previous cook was literate, sir?”
“I warned you she was peculiar.”
Alexia took another look around and then, thinking rapidly, maneuvered toward the small bed. “Oh, dear, perhaps those stairs were a tad much given my present condition. I seem to be feeling rather overstimulated.” She collapsed onto the bed, leaning back dramatically and almost overbalancing. It was a paltry performance.
Nevertheless, the butler seemed convinced. “Oh, I say, Mrs. Floote. This simply isn’t on. Really, we can’t consider anyone who—”
Alexia cut him off by groaning and clutching at her stomach significantly.
The man blanched.
“Perhaps if I could have a little moment to recover, sir?”
The butler looked like he would prefer to be anywhere else but there. “I shall fetch you a glass of water, shall I? Perhaps some, er, jelly?”
“Oh, yes, capital idea. Do take your time.”
At which he hurried out.
Immediately, Alexia lurched upright, an exercise that made up in efficiency what it lacked in dignity, and began searching the room. She found very little memorabilia with regards to the occupant’s personality, but there were even more notebooks and mysterious bottles tucked away in the bedside drawer and the wardrobe. She tucked anything that looked to be secret or significant into the stealth pockets of her parasol. Then, knowing she must limit herself, she took what seemed to be the most recent notebook and one that looked to be the oldest and most dusty, along with a neatly printed ledger and bundled them up in Felicity’s shawl. The parasol was clanking slightly and drooping from its excess load, and she thought the knitwear bundle must look very suspicious, but when the butler returned, he was so overjoyed to find her recovered he didn’t notice either.