The Curious Steambox Affair

by Melissa Macgregor

  You can imagine my shock to find myself hired. A representative from the Council visited Inverness and we spoke briefly. All the arrangements were made. Salary set, and if I might be crass once again, let me assure you that this salary is one that you and your father would find extremely pleasing, should my financial situation be of any interest to you. They secured me a room in a boarding house, so that I would not have to trouble myself with such detail upon arriving. I was to be working alongside Mr. Ian Hyde, although they refused to answer even my most basic questions about the doctor.

  Fascinating. I found my thoughts occupied on that long, arduous flight to Edinburgh with little other than the supreme lack of knowledge I had been awarded. So strange, really. I had no idea of what particular type of science we would be studying, or what my assignment would be. Would it be mere learning of the past? I dared not hope for more, for the possibility of discovering that which I most longed for. Thoughts of the drawings from the great masters of science of possible machines filled my mind, sketches of Steamboxes and such like, perplexities of perpetual motion. And with no details of my superior, it made for hours’ worth of worrying and speculation on what was to come.

  Frankly, I was pleased to have something to ponder, considering the journey South was far longer than I would have wished. The airship makes several stops along the way, at various stations, and I was grateful that there was abundant time to step out on the platforms and catch a few fresh breaths of cold air. The wooden seat becomes far less comfortable as the hours progress, and the surrounding company turns far less agreeable. The headache caused my eyes to ache, which made any further reading impossible.

  Forgive me for complaining, but as I have said, my opinions on this mode of travel make it impossible to report such details without bias.

  We flew through the night. Through the steady rain. I suppose some consider the zeppelin as a grand gliding through the air, but from what I could observe, none of the travelers sitting close to me possessed this sentiment. With each passing hour, the discomfort was more pronounced, and it was with great, communal relief that the captain announced that we were finally approaching Edinburgh.

  In anticipation of the heavy crowd disembarking, I decided it best to vacate my seat before landing. I managed to procure myself a nice positioning alongside one of the lower railings. The rain had lessened to a light drizzle, and I had possession of my warmest cloak, so the wind was not a bother. Dawn was creeping across the sky as we approached, and I must say, for all of my troubles and ill health, the sight of Edinburgh in the early morning sunlight was truly something to witness.

  You must forgive me for being poetic when I describe the outline of the city in the cold grey mists of dawn. The sun was just rising, providing ample light to see the majestic castle perched high upon its lofty hilltop. There was a glow of gas lamps as we drifted above the tight mazes of streets. I clutched the rain-dampened railing and stared at the grey facades of buildings, clustered so closely together that it was difficult to decide where first one left off and the other began. I enjoyed the higgledy-piggledy of it. The way it stretched out around the base of the castle. The funiculars, wheezing their way up the sharp inclines. The thick steam and coal smoke that made the air thick and cloying. I could see the endless processions of carriages and horses. I could see people, already on their busy ways, wrapped tightly in coats and shawls.

  Again, forgive me for my pathetic poetry, but at that moment, staring at the medieval splendor that is Edinburgh, I felt as if I were witnessing life as it happened. The larger picture, looking down upon it all, just like angels must from Heaven. There was a frenzy of activity, even at dawn. From my bird’s-eye view, I felt as if I could see it all, and with the mountains as backdrop, it was as if I were bearing witness to a very expensive stage production.

  I managed to disembark with barely a fuss. My trunks were loaded onto a waiting carriage, and I was met by a junior official from the Doctoral Council. He informed me that I was to make myself comfortable in the city for a few days, and my initial orientation and meeting with Dr. Hyde would take place once I was settled. The official would take me to my boarding house, and he encouraged me to acquaint myself with my new surroundings before thinking of work.

  Again, odd. This was not the sort of welcome to which I am accustomed. I can usually expect my first hours at a new posting to be spent alongside the doctor I am to assist. Your father and I met immediately upon my arrival in Inverness, and I remember quite clearly that first dinner. So, to be delayed like this was both strange and fascinating, but the young official assured me that the Council wished for me to be as rested as possible before assuming my duties.

  The traffic was immense, and the official was loathe to answer many of my questions with regard to Dr. Hyde. I must confess to you, Miss Campbell, that his reticence only increased my curiosity about the man. His answers to any of my questions were met with an admirable evasion, and he politely turned the conversation to talks of my airship journey and suchlike.

  The incline of street was a marvel to me, and I found myself tightly gripping the top of my cane as our carriage went forth at an impossible angle. It seemed as if we were traveling up the mountainside itself, with only a very narrow road cut into the rock, without any gradual leveling. On each side were the tightly wedged buildings I had earlier so admired, and I contented myself with looking at the various businesses and shops as we passed.

  My headache returned with the terrific and terrible swaying of the carriage. Due to the perilous nature of the road, there were several times when the carriage felt suspended in air as we went up a particularly steep incline.

  The official informed me that we were in the older section of town, the Auld Toon, and that was where my lodgings had been procured. Our carriage finally stopped before a small narrow between two stone buildings. As I alighted, I could see the beginnings of impossibly steep steps that appeared to disappear off the mountainside entirely. A glance above, at the narrow’s apex, showed that this was, in fact, a pedestrian set of steps, complete with a small brass sign for a street address. Warriston’s Close.

  I liked it immediately.

  There was a fishmonger, whose doors opened onto the steps. A family who had made saws since the beginning of time. A hatter. Several other businesses as well, but I scarcely had time to investigate before my trunks were unloaded and I was being ushered down the steps myself.

  Impossibly steep, and undoubtedly dangerous, given that the rain kept the stone permanently slicked. As I descended, it was as if I were stepping into another world. The gaslights flickered in their sconces, secured against various doorways as I passed. There were windows that looked down at me. The main street, the one on which my carriage still lingered, was scarcely visible as I traversed down and down. The longer I walked, the more it seemed the rest of the city disappeared. All I knew was the teeming reality of this street, this close. This place that for the next few months would be my home.

  The close was alive with activity. Shopkeepers calling out to each other. People moving up and down the narrow staircase. It was so crowded in fact that I had great concern over my trunks being carried by carriage footmen, but they traversed both the pedestrians and incredible angles with a dexterity that I envied.

  The deeper we walked, the more amazed I became. On several occasions, there were visible offshoots from this central staircase. I afforded a few quick glances down them as I passed by, and was startled to see that they were independent closes on their own, all with their own cloying buildings, shops, and dwellings. Laundry lines were stretched out overhead, cutting off even more of the air and light. The noise of the inhabitants was greater now, and I came to understand that this strange avenue was, in fact, a city unto itself. It would be incredibly easy to get lost among the various winding ways, and I shudder to think of someone possessing your delicate constitution ever witnessing such an archaic sort of
life as what I was seeing.

  This life would be best described as claustrophobic, and indeed, I immediately missed the clean, open spaces of your beloved Highlands. The buildings are too close to allow much clean air, if such was available, but Edinburgh itself is full of coal smoke. I am beginning to fear that clean air is something that does not exist here, in this bustling, crazed city.

  I suppose I will grow accustomed to such cramped living, but it was not then a pleasant thought. I forced myself to be cheerful as we pulled even with the boarding house. There were no signs indicating that this building was any different from the others flanking it, but I was assured by the official that this was, indeed, the proper locale.

  Mr. Mitchell runs the place, with his wife, who is of such dour expression that I at first dreaded the inevitable introductions. She turned out to be more pleasant than first expected, ushering me swiftly away from the teeming steps, and into the foyer of the boarding house proper.

  I tremble at my use of the word foyer, but I am at a loss of how better to describe it. The building was even more cramped on the interior than I had assumed, while standing on the threshold. I stood in a smallish reception room, which had a pitiful fire in the far corner. The furnishings were shabby and ill cared for, a few threadbare chairs and a pathetic settee. But I was pleased and gratified to see that it was indeed clean. A rawboned dog greeted us from its perch on the fireside hearth. My trunks were sent downstairs, and I was offered a glass of surprisingly sweet wine and then an offer of breakfast that I was too tired to accept.

  I was shown into an adjacent dining room, which was filled to near capacity with a rustic table and bench-styled seats. Mrs. Mitchell informed me that all of my meals were included in the boarding price, which was assumed by the Council. She worried and fussed over me with a motherly sense of care that was, unfortunately, annoying for its simpering sympathy. She was increasingly worried over my continued refusal to eat, and when I finally admitted that I was fatigued, I was quickly led into the depths of the boarding house, to what would be my new quarters.

  I do not hesitate to use the word depths. My room is located deeply underground. Below a basement. Reached only by a wide, creaking set of long wooden stairwells, which made me begin to fear that we were headed for the depths of Dante’s Inferno itself. Deeper and deeper we went, past closed doors of, I assume, other boarders. Mrs. Mitchell informed me, with a grating cheeriness, that these were coffin staircases, constructed so that a coffin could easily be carried up and down them without difficulty. This did little to comfort me as we descended.

  Upon rereading this missive, which has turned out far longer than I anticipated, I fear you will be annoyed by my incessant ramblings. I apologize, and have lost track of time entirely, sitting at my small desk in front of the sputtering candle. Speaking to you with the quill moving against the parchment. I found comfort in my Spartan quarters, writing you, and hope that I have not caused offense at such conversational wanderings.

  Please know that I await a response with bated breath. If I might be so bold, the thought of receiving a reply from you, of knowing that you are truly willing to conduct correspondence, thrills me beyond measure. I have, therefore, made arrangements with both the Edinburgh Air Station and the Inverness Air Station to have our letters transported by that method. There is no reliable post at my quarters, and so I have set up an address at the Edinburgh Air Station, in my name.

  Forgive me, but I have also set up an account for a Miss Campbell, Inverness Air Station. The Air Station Attendant has posted a letter to you, notifying you of your personal account and lockbox at the station. I know that you go into town weekly, and if it is acceptable to you, then my letters will be waiting for you there, should you wish to retrieve them. All posting costs will be addressed to my account, so please write whenever you wish. I can only hope that you wish to do so often.

  For now, I will regretfully close. Again, I apologize for the delay but have spent the past few days attempting to acquaint myself with the maze in which I live. I intend to post this on my way to the Council tomorrow morning, and it should reach you the day after.

  Tomorrow, I am to finally meet with Hyde. I must admit that my curiosity is boundless. I have yet to encounter him at all, or scarcely anyone from the Doctoral Council. In all likelihood, I will rush home to my tiny quarters, far below the city streets, and will describe to you what should be a most interesting meeting.

  Regards.

  Chapter Two

  September 3

  Mitchell Boarding House

  Dear Miss Campbell,

  My curiosity today was centered, as expected, on the mysterious Dr. Ian Hyde.

  It was with excited determination that I set off early this morning, intending to not only have my first meeting with the Doctoral Council but to finally introduce myself to the man I would be working alongside for these next few months. By now, I have achieved a modicum of success navigating the perilous steps that lead me to and fro my underground dwelling. I have become acquainted with the businesses closest to me, and have a rudimentary understanding of which narrow close leads where. A grocer! A bookstore! A coffee stall! All a few dangerous steps from my humble abode. And all necessary to my daily happiness.

  I have made acquaintance with a large number of my fellow boarders, some of whom are more pleasant than others. I find it surprising that so many of us are tenants at the Mitchell house, but the Mitchells are intent on providing themselves more income than comfort of living. That is nowhere more evident than at mealtimes, when there is hardly any meat offered and stale ends of bread. A thin gruel masquerading as soup is the normal offering, at any time of day. Again and again, I find myself reminiscing about the splendor of your father’s table, and the meals I enjoyed during my time at the boarding house in Inverness. But the grocer has been found, so I am of half a mind to start a necessary provision stock in the corner of my tiny room.

  But, as usual, I digress. My morning began pleasantly, with a stop at the coffee stall. Then on to the Air Station, winding my way through the maze of streets and steps with a noble success. I posted your letter with great happiness and trepidation, and instructed the porter to see that it would be included in today’s shipment. He assured me that it would be, and said that the postal ships move with even greater speed than passenger transport.

  I set off then into the Auld Toon proper, making my way to the Edinburgh Operating Theatre. I must admit that my nerves were somewhat frayed, what with traversing the busy, relentless pedestrian traffic that lined the pavements. It was colder this morning than it has been recently, and the rain fell more heavily, making all the grey buildings around me appear dismal and unwelcoming. Still, I am normally of cheerful disposition, and this morning was no different. I knew, without a doubt, that my work would begin, and that knowledge did much to help me ignore the soggy, cold world around me.

  This good mood remained, even when I arrived at the Council offices only to be ushered not to a meeting with Dr. Hyde, as expected, but instead to a meeting with another doctor. Full of curiosity, I made the usual inquiries of the attendant who took my rain-sodden coat and hat, but he too was closed-mouthed when it came to any queries regarding Ian Hyde.

  I was beginning to think the man was a figment of my imagination.

  I was escorted to the very warm and inviting office of Dr. William MacDougal, the head of the Edinburgh Doctoral Council. The office was beautifully appointed, looking down loftily at the bricked streets below. There was a glowing fireplace and sitting area, separate from the doctor’s paper-cluttered desk. I accepted both a seat close to the fire and the offered glass of very fine whisky, which did wonders to warm up my chilled interior. Dr. MacDougal was kind enough to join me before the fire, making it a far less formal meeting than I had at first expected.

  I also did not waste any time in inquiring if I was, indeed, to meet with Hy
de. At any point this century?

  The reaction evident in Dr. MacDougal’s expression was as fascinating as the distinct lack of presence of Dr. Hyde. He registered a brief flicker of discomfort. A tight pursing of his lips, as if a thought was distasteful. There was suddenly a wariness, and then, as has been my usual experience, I was subjected to a swift and pointed conversational turn.

  “I do hope that you are finding yourself comfortable in your new city,” MacDougal said as he busied himself with refilling our whisky glasses. “Edinburgh takes some time to get to know. A very fine city, of course, but one that can be unwelcoming.”

  You can hardly blame me, Miss Campbell, but I pressed onward with my line of questioning with regard to Hyde.

  “You cannot expect me to begin my duties as the man’s assistant if I know nothing of him,” I continued. “Surely this transition would be easier if I know a few of his details.”

  MacDougal was equally determined in his conversational path. “You were given information when hired,” he replied calmly. “Surely that is enough.”

  I was a bit at a loss at this point. I had already been impudent enough. MacDougal is the head of the Council, in charge of all the physicians and scientists on staff. As polite as he had been, it seemed hardly conducive to my position here to force an unwanted conversation.

  The irregularities were mind-numbing, and for the first time, I was beginning to doubt this position’s worth.

  Nervous of how best to proceed, I reached into my medical reticule. The dossier I had originally received was tucked within. I pulled it out and opened it, hesitant as to where to start. I made a great show of rustling the pages, which were, primarily, my own notes and questions I had developed during the past few days. All the while, MacDougal sipped his whisky, his sharp eyes watching me steadily.