The Curious Steambox Affair

by Melissa Macgregor

  I decided to begin cautiously. “Am I truly assigned to Dr. Hyde?” I asked. “Or am I to be working alongside another physician?”

  “You are Hyde’s assistant,” MacDougal replied. “As explained in your hiring.”

  “Ah, yes.” I tapped my finger against the pages. Silence descended upon the office, the lack of sound broken only by the crackle of the fire.

  I will admit a deep frustration with this entire situation. I pride myself on my professionalism, and my dedication to my work. This sort of evasion, this great and strange mystery, seemed both a dire waste of my time and a source of discomfort. I made another attempt at understanding.

  “What I do know of Dr. Hyde, what was explained to me,” I began, making great show of shuffling the papers, “is that he is appointed by the Scottish Crown to conduct scientific experiments, alongside the usual medicinal practices. He has full allowance and license with his methods.” I looked up at MacDougal, waiting for him to correct me. Instead, he nodded sagely.

  “Full allowance and license?” I said again. “So, there is no one to regulate his procedures?”

  “Aye,” MacDougal said, his gaze centered on the depths of his glass. “No one dares.”

  “I have never heard of such a thing,” I said.

  MacDougal barked a laugh. “And you never will, either. Hyde is the only physician in existence who possesses absolute royal authority. He has the Crown’s permission to research anything he wishes to, without waiting for approval. No weekly reports. No repercussions for failures.”

  I was, finally, stunned into silence.

  You must understand, Miss Campbell, this sort of scientific freedom is virtually unheard of. I certainly have never known it before. For all of their professed freedoms of science, the Scottish Crown is extremely rigid when it comes both to the awarding of such assignments and to their procedural conduct. It often takes years for a physician to obtain permission on a specific project.

  The bureaucracy is maddening. There is normally an immense amount of paperwork required, and an even longer waiting period to discover if the assignment has been awarded. Your father and I have often discussed the frustrations involved in such a system. Often, good projects are outdated and useless, only because the response time is so long from the Scientific Offices.

  To put this in ancient terms, if an alchemist desired to turn pieces of lead into gold, in our day and age he would be forced to petition the Crown for permission before he could make the attempt.

  And once awarded, there is paperwork that must be completed on a weekly basis, and submitted to the Office, thereby governing the most minute details on how the physician and his assistant may conduct said experiments. There is a sinister side to this business as well, a reckoning, so to speak, which is kept on file by the Office. These weekly reports cumulate in a record being kept and updated, detailing the success rates of each physician or scientist and his assistant. Failures result in revocation of Crown approval, and a refusal to grant support on any future scientific endeavors. Physicians lose scientific licenses should it come to that. Careers are ruined.

  To work without the impediment of Crown involvement? No lengthy waiting time for approval? No dreaded reports? How could this be possible?

  I was beginning to understand the reticence to discuss Hyde, if this was indeed true. Professional jealousy could be easily understood. How had Hyde managed this?

  The intrigue deepened. As did my curiosity.

  I took a much-needed sip of whisky, my mind whirling with disbelief. “How did he manage this?” I finally asked. “Is he political?”

  “His family is,” MacDougal said with a derisive snort. “They supported the Bonnie Prince in the right way at the right time and ensured that the right people knew. They did very well for themselves during the Napoleonic Wars, and again, ensured that the right people realized their valiant deeds.”

  His bitterness and hatred was palpable, causing a return to the conversational lull. But, by this point, I was simply too engrossed to sit quiet.

  “Is he married?” I asked, deciding that a little personal knowledge of the man might make this investigative task easier.

  MacDougal’s expression darkened. “Who would marry him? What woman mad enough? Desperate enough? Although they do say that he is courting a lady here in town. Sister of some wine merchants. Which is appropriate, considering.”

  I was startled by his rudeness and yet too fascinated to excuse myself. The curiosity was overwhelming, and without hesitation I found myself asking, “Considering what?”

  “Perhaps I should put it this way,” MacDougal said with a disapproving scowl. He slid the whisky bottle across a side table. “If you wish to last longer than three days with Hyde, then I suggest you keep this close at hand.”

  “I have never been much of an imbiber,” I admitted, already regretting what little bit I had sipped. “Politeness only.”

  “I am not discussing your penchant for drink,” MacDougal snapped. “I am discussing Hyde.”

  “Thank God someone is,” I ventured, too frustrated to retain proper manners. “I have begun to believe the man is a figment of my imagination.”

  “Ian Hyde? Oh, he is very, very real. Let me assure you of that, Mr. Purefoy.”

  MacDougal’s laugh was a chortling wheeze, which made me begin to fear for his good health. Although stoutly built, with a portly frame that implied too many years of eating far too well, MacDougal is a man of advanced years. Thick white sideburns frame the wide, thoroughly lined face. And when he laughed, a deep red color effused his visage, making me anticipate collapse.

  “I take it that he enjoys his drink,” I said cautiously, once the laughter had died down enough for me to feel comfortable. “Any in particular?”

  “Where drink is concerned, I do not believe that Hyde is particular.”

  “Oh,” I said. Again, I was horrified by what seemed an immense rudeness. Dr. Hyde is to be my superior, and I was at a loss as to how best to proceed. Was this a mere gossip session? A cruel listing of the man’s faults? And what, pray tell, was my response supposed to be?

  Finally I muttered, “Good to know.”

  “Necessary to know,” MacDougal countered. “You will see in time. The man is a completely different beast once he imbibes a bit.” And then he warned me to ensure that Dr. Hyde imbibed a bit with constant regularity.

  I have come now to the part of this odd conversation that was strangely the most interesting to me, although I suppose it is the least flattering. Keep in mind, I am avowed to keep you abreast of my daily life, and painful and rude as it might be, it will still inform you accurately of what I am experiencing here.

  “You will keep him soused if you know what is good for you, Mr. Purefoy,” MacDougal intoned. “Choice is yours, of course. I still do not believe that any amount of wine, whisky, or liquor will give you longer than three days with the man.”

  Three days. I was beginning to feel as if I were making progress in this twisted puzzle.

  “Tell me the truth,” I said. “Is that the longest an assistant has lasted, working alongside Hyde?”

  “Two days,” MacDougal corrected.

  I could not stop myself from laughing. This was so farcical, so strange. Unfortunately, my laughter made his expression further darken.

  This is where MacDougal became rude.

  “We are only giving you three days, Mr. Purefoy, because we do not think you intelligent enough to realize swiftly the monster to which you have been assigned.”

  He appeared horrified in an instant, the redness returning to his face with great suddenness. He shifted in his chair. He twisted nervously at the top of his cravat. Silence was enveloping.

  Although his rudeness was startling, I simply found it too amusing to give it much credence. There is nothing in my chara
cter or expressed in my files of service that implies a lack of intelligence. I suppose my lack of outrage seems odd to you. Certainly if he had so insulted a friend of mine in the same manner, my response would have been different. But as it was, I found his blatant insult a source of delight.

  Nothing had been particularly pleasant thus far, so why begin now?

  And, if I must be honest, his comment made all verbal attacks upon Dr. Hyde dissipate in my mind. Hyde was going to have to be quite the monster to be worse than what I had already experienced. My only task was to try to keep my laughter and good humor to a polite minimum.

  “Well,” I said, once I was sure I could speak without chuckling. “Well. I suppose I should inquire as to why you doubt my intelligence.”

  “I meant no offense, Mr. Purefoy,” MacDougal said quickly.

  I laughed then. “Of course you do, sir. And I am to assume that you are including the other members of the Doctoral Council who refuse to answer my questions about Dr. Hyde. Those are the others who are in current doubt of my intelligence.”

  “Ian Hyde is not favored by his fellow physicians,” MacDougal admitted. “And I am horrified by my statement, Mr. Purefoy. You must accept my apology.”

  I am intelligent enough to understand that I was in conversational control at this point. I smiled, and glanced at my list of questions. They were useless now, and I closed the dossier and returned it to the reticule. But I did realize that he was at my questioning mercy.

  “Allow me to assure myself that I understand this correctly,” I said. “I am hired as Dr. Hyde’s assistant. I have yet to meet him. No one will answer even my most basic queries about him, or what my work here will entail. My own intelligence is questioned by accepting this posting, although it was advertised. I am to serve Hyde a constant dose of whisky, and his former assistant lasted only a mere two days.”

  “His last five assistants,” MacDougal corrected. “Collectively they lasted, at most, two days. I mean no personal offense, sir. No man could stomach a post assigned with Hyde for long. If it is any comfort we believe you will take three days to resign, which is longer than the rest.”

  I laughed again. “Well, that is a comfort. I believe he and I will get along quite well indeed.”

  MacDougal opened his mouth, poised to respond, but we were interrupted by a swift opening of the office door. I would like to say that I was disappointed, but this meeting was proving unhelpful. I was of half a mind to refuse the posting entirely, and was debating the merits of remaining in what felt a hostile environment.

  All such thoughts died away as the junior official, the one who had fetched me from the Air Station, burst into the room. My curiosity returned tenfold. I was still undecided if this was, in fact, a lunatic asylum. Such theatrics and subterfuge certainly pointed in that direction.

  The official (and I apologize; I have completely forgotten his name, although he was just as nervous and unsure of himself as he had been during my escort to the Mitchell House) stood just across the threshold. He was breathless, exerted from a recent sprint. His eyes were as wide as saucers, as if he had just witnessed the paranormal repercussions of an unwanted séance.

  “Dr. MacDougal!” the man cried. “Come quick! It is Hyde! He is in the Operating Theatre!”

  I nearly crowed with triumph. At last, the elusive Hyde! I was beginning to feel I was reacquainted with a long-missing friend. Certainly, my mysteries were rapidly resolving themselves. Hyde was in the Theatre. All was right with the world.

  My companions, however, felt differently.

  “Hyde!” MacDougal echoed. “I thought he was not to be here until three.”

  “He is here, sir,” the official confirmed.

  “Horrendous.”

  “Well,” I said, unwilling to spend a moment longer with either of them. I rose to my feet and picked up the medical reticule. “I suppose it would be best for me to retrieve my answers from the man himself. I might not be intelligent enough to understand the answers, but I am his hired assistant. Reporting for duty.”

  “You had best take the bottle,” MacDougal intoned. I glanced at the assistant, and was dismayed that he nodded his agreement.

  What sort of place was this? What a complete lack of respect!

  “Fine,” I said simply, tucking the bottle beneath my arm. “Three days! What a ridiculous wager. No man can be that horrible.”

  “You have yet to meet Hyde,” MacDougal replied. “Do not become comfortable at your lodging, sir. Chances are, you shall be returning to Inverness before too long.”

  And so I found myself gratefully dismissed. And once more, ushered by the junior official, only this time to the Operating Theatre.

  I find that I must stop here for now, Miss Campbell. My candle has burned itself to a mere nub, and I am aware that its wax is drifting toward this parchment. I am to set off into the night to procure more candles, as well as another quill. And perhaps a blanket or two, since the chill of the air above has seeped into my subterranean abode.

  But be assured that I did, indeed, finally make acquaintance with the mysterious Dr. Hyde. And I will tell you more of it when I return to my desk. I also wish to know more of your day. How you spent the hours. Please tell me even the most mundane details. Such thoughts will cheer a poor physician’s assistant, lost beneath the dark streets of a grim city . . .

  Chapter Three

  A new candle. A better quill.

  Which returns me to Hyde.

  You can imagine my surprise at finally seeing the man. I possessed the sense that I had finally reached the end of an extremely strange and tumultuous journey. The doctor did exist, contrary to popular sentiment.

  And he did not, at first glance, appear to be monstrous.

  I had a good vantage point to observe him quietly and without bother. No one cared about me, and for the moment I was forgotten entirely. I lingered in the doorway of the Operating Theatre, at the head of the staircase that led to the floor. I wished to be alone and untroubled. I wanted to see Hyde for myself, without the diluting opinions of my fellow doctors.

  I was granted this wish, a fact that much pleased me.

  There is little I love more than a good operating theatre, and Edinburgh’s offering did not disappoint. It is one of the most beautiful I have ever seen. I suppose I should describe it a bit for you, since I know that your father did not practice in one.

  However, I fervently wish that somehow, someday, you shall come to Edinburgh and see the room for yourself. My words provide a pale description of what truly is a splendid structure. I fear that it is simply something that must be seen with human eyes, rather than read about, but I will do my best to describe it accurately and hope that I capture some of its beauty on the page.

  There are three levels of seating surrounding the operating floor, creating, I suppose, a macabre sort of opera house. This is probably the best comparison, and the easiest for imaginative purposes. The floor is the stage, where all of the experiments and surgeries comprise the theatrical productions. The first level of seating is the Stalls. Next is the Dress Circle. From my vantage point, I was in the doorway of the Upper Mezzanine.

  The only true physical difference I can think of between an operating theatre and an opera house is that the galleries in the medical setting encircle the operating floor completely. Although, I suppose there are theatrical examples of such structures. At any rate, these viewing galleries surround the floor on all sides, making it possible to observe a physician from every angle as he works.

  The seats were well-worn but obviously cared for. The aisles were heavily polished, I imagined by decades of effort to erase the scuffing of booted feet traipsing them. The sharp incline of the staircase was made safer by a heavy oak banister, which also showed the glow from years of use.

  I spared a glance up. A stained-glass skyligh
t in a geometrical design graced the top of the rotund, allowing a grey light to filter through its decorative glass. Gaslights shone from sconces along the wall, giving off sufficient glow to provide more than adequate light for the work below.

  The Operating Theatre was austere and impressive, and made one wish to conduct important research and embark upon earth-shattering theories. This was the home of discovery, a hallowed space of learning. I felt a little breathless standing there, at the top of the staircase, and not even the presence of the mysterious Ian Hyde was enough to make me feel otherwise.

  I also felt extremely unworthy and ill-prepared, my mind instantly scanning my sparse resume. Who was I to believe I was capable of such science? Of such greatness? Incredible things had been conducted within these hallowed walls. Great advances. Important work.

  “Gentlemen,” Hyde said, his voice echoing through the Theatre with the impressive timbre of a true theatrical professional. “I will, of course, require an abject and complete silence, if I am to do this properly.”

  Ian Hyde was not at all what I expected.

  Through the passing days, I had created a mental image of the man. That image, fed, no doubt, by the appalling lack of knowledge that I had been granted. Most regarded him as having traits bordering on monstrous, and unfortunately my mental sketch of him was made all the worse by the responses of others. I suppose I had been expecting a cruel hunchback covered with bloodstains and dripping with venom. That idea amuses me now, as I sit before my desk and write to you, but one cannot help but form an expectation based on the bizarre opinions offered all around.

  I am also aware that I read a great deal too much, and can be too fanciful sometimes in my imaginings, but it was still with an immense relief that I saw that Dr. Hyde possessed none of the monstrous qualities that I had mentally attributed to him.

  He was tall, far taller than anyone else I had yet made acquaintance with here in Edinburgh. His height is natural; there is no evidence of added heel to his boots. I suppose that his height might be a source of derision among others. It did not seem to bother Hyde, who stood with perfect posture, untroubled.