The Curious Steambox Affair

by Melissa Macgregor

  He was also dressed expensively and well, his clothing obviously having been procured from a finer tailor than those frequented by the other physicians sitting in the galleries. He wore a heavily embroidered waistcoat, which was a direct contrast to the more usual, duller choices.

  He had shrugged out of his coat, and tossed it in a negligent heap atop the lower railing of the operating floor. He had not hung it on one of the iron hooks embedded in the Theatre wall, as the others had. That lack of care with the obviously fine material was unexpected. It implied that, should the coat be ruined by his disregard, there could be more procured with great financial ease.

  Things are often spilled in the viewing gallery, or worse, an experiment can go wrong at any moment. It is always best to store one’s coat as far away from the floor as possible, lest you have your tailor bills increase tenfold.

  Hyde was thin and gaunter than I expected. He did not have the expansive belly so common in the upper echelon of the Edinburgh Doctoral Council. Those men are well feted and well fed, and I had expected the same of Hyde. To see him, with his pronounced cheekbones and thin face, was a surprise. His features were sharp, save only for a nose that appeared to have been broken several times, and reset poorly. Faded blond hair was impeccably combed, and beneath the gaslight it reflected a dull golden color.

  I had also expected an expression of impatient cruelty or a mocking sneer. Not so. Hyde’s expression was guarded, but calm. I would describe it as a bored indifference, one lacking any real enthusiasm for malice or any other strong emotion.

  He had pale eyes that I can only describe as the color of sea foam. (Again, forgive me. I read too many novels, and I have always wondered what color would represent sea foam. The idea struck me today, while staring down at Hyde, that his eyes were, in fact, not blue. They are not green. They are neither bright nor memorable, and if I had not previously pondered over the exact nature and description of sea foam, I should not have noticed them at all.)

  So, the best words I can use to describe the mysterious Ian Hyde are these: jaded, faded, gaunt, bored, well-tailored, and sea foam.

  I would not, under more normal conditions, regard him so closely, but circumstances demanded that I do so. If he had not been so mysterious, or so openly hated by others, I should not have paid him any particular attention.

  There was a surgical arrangement on the floor. I could see a patient or cadaver on a medical table. Several low-lying tables displayed a vast amount of medical equipment, and an enviable number of gleaming tools.

  All around me, throughout the galleries, I could hear the grumblings of Hyde’s fellow physicians. I was acquainted enough with their hatred for the man to be aware of what they were saying. I was also aware that I was the only one remaining standing. Everyone else had taken his seat, and while they were speaking foully of Hyde, they were pointing and waving at me to sit down.

  I had gaffed, obviously, and for some reason that pleased me.

  Ignoring them, I decided that it was high time to take over my new tasks. I took the steps two at a time, descending toward the floor. I saw Hyde notice me, saw him frown. I also realized that his gaze had settled upon the bottle of whisky, still clutched beneath my arm. Paying no attention to the nervous swell from the crowd, I walked to the base of the stairs, and stepped down onto the floor.

  “Dr. Hyde,” I said, my voice silencing the galleries. I set my reticule on the ground, and then, straightening, I held out the bottle. “I have this for you. And I must apologize for the distinct lack of introduction, sir. My name is Alistair Purefoy and I have been awarded the honor of working alongside you on your latest project.”

  “I require no aid,” Hyde said succinctly, his voice lacking even a modicum of warmth. He did, however, take the offered bottle of whisky, and without requiring the civility of a glass, he took a hefty sip.

  Strangely, a collective sigh of relief emanated from the spectators. I glanced around, confused, but all eyes were, apparently, focused on Hyde drinking.

  Again, I must confess to you, Miss Campbell. I found myself struggling against inappropriate laughter. All of this was so strange, and certainly not dull.

  Still trying to rein in my merriment, I shrugged out of my coat. I managed to drape it across the railing with the same style of disregard, although I normally take far better care with my possessions. I rolled my shirtsleeves up to mid-forearm. I did my best to not grin.

  “Of course you do not require aid,” I said, when Hyde’s gaze settled upon me. “That is why you are the physician, sir, and I am the assistant. Consider me an observer, if you wish.”

  “Observers sit in the gallery,” Hyde muttered, then took another sip from the bottle’s mouth.

  “Those are hecklers, sir,” I said, throwing caution to the wind. “You can hardly call what they do observing.”

  Something flashed briefly in those strange, light eyes. Something akin to humor, but it quickly dissipated.

  “You are an Englishman,” Hyde said flatly. “I have no use for anything English.”

  “Who does?” I replied.

  I was aware, by now, of the buzz of protest drifting down from the galleries above. They were reacting to my insult; they were angry, and in all likelihood, they had every reason. I was a subordinate, and under normal circumstances, I would never speak so frankly or rudely as I just had. But, due to the vexing and strange reception I had received, it seemed useless to bother with politeness. Thus far, no one else had.

  I took some humorous comfort in the knowledge that those around me believed me too dull and stupid to realize the import of my words. I gave my sleeves another roll, my lips twitching with barely suppressed laughter.

  Hyde seemed to take exception at my grin and made a low, unpleasant snarl. “You have the hands of a forester,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “You do not have the hands of a proper surgeon.”

  “A butcher, actually,” I said. I glanced down at my broad hands, at my large fingers. I shrugged. “Genetic trait. They have caused me no difficulties at my previous postings and do make it easier to get a good grip on things.”

  “What is an English butcher doing in Edinburgh?” Hyde queried. He took another sip of whisky, the spirit causing a rich color to creep across his cheeks. “Are you lost?”

  “I am beginning to feel that way,” I admitted. “But sometimes being lost is far more interesting than staying the course.”

  Again, the flicker of humor. Hyde took a sip, regarding me down the length of the bottle. I think I surprised him by my frank replies. I surprised myself. I certainly surprised those observing.

  I looked at the patient, a young man, stretched out on an examining table, his body covered by a thick white sheet. Not a cadaver. He was breathing shallowly, his eyes closed. I took a cautious sniff, trying to decide it camphor had been used, but then the man opened his eyes and smiled politely, as if we were meeting in a more normal circumstance.

  At this point, I had become inured to the odd.

  But what truly interested me was the small wooden box, set up on a table, just at the side of the patient’s head. Several small brass tubes were connected from the top of the box to the bed itself, and I was aware of a humming and vibrating. There were various knobs and dials on the front of the box, which were turned at very precise angles. Intrigued, I took a step forward.

  Could it be? My heartbeat quickened. I felt blood rush to my brain. Curiosity and excitement took hold of me. I could scarcely think straight. I stared.

  “Touch nothing,” Hyde said briskly. “You will ruin what has taken me hours to arrange. Tell me what brings you to my operating floor.”

  Yes! Only days after landing in this city of possibilities, I was staring at the impossible. The fantastic!

  “I am your new assistant,” I replied. I found it impossible to look away from the wooden box. The
tubes were shaking slightly, and as I watched, a great hiss of steam erupted from the top of the contraption. That noise caused a furor of conversation to fill the galleries, but Hyde silenced them all with a furious bellow.

  “Assistant?” he shouted, his figure briefly masked by the steam cloud. “An English butcher? This is no hog, prepared for slaughter. No special cuts required. This is delicate work! The work of one’s mind! You possess the hands of a hooligan. A hired assassin! You insult me by even standing on this hallowed floor, and—”

  “I see that you have designed a Steambox,” I interrupted, still staring at it. I was relieved that my voice did not betray my very strong emotions. I was grateful I remained on my feet. “A fine specimen, sir, if you do not mind my compliment. Brass tubes,” I said, pointing to where the tubes were connected to the bedside. “Good for conducting both heat and cold. I assume you are using heat?” I said, and waving my hand over one of the tubes, I smiled as I felt the burning wave of heat emanating from within it. “None of these are cold?” I asked, waving my hand slowly over each connected tube. I could feel the scorching beams against my palm. “I would have expected a balance between chill and heat.”

  “Cold is useless in my experiment today,” Hyde answered, his snarl lessening a tiny bit. “How does a butcher know of a Steambox?”

  “Even butchers can read,” I said blithely. “Contrary to popular opinion, we are not unintelligent.”

  I directed my attention to the front of the box, with its dials and brass levers. I had read about the possibility of such contraptions, but had certainly never seen one actually constructed. As you know from my earlier correspondence, this is a particular fascination of mine. A dream! How had he done it? I had studied sketches, but truly, a Steambox is considered an impossibility to build. My heart began thudding in excitement as I looked down and saw that the dials were quite capable of turning the entire machine into a provider of cold.

  Succinctly, a Steambox is theoretically the creator of either intense heat or intense chill. To be able to create these conditions on a whim is not only a scientific marvel but could prove invaluable to the medical profession. Consider the blazing heat involved in a roaring bonfire. Or the intense and blinding cold of a snowstorm. To have all of these at one’s fingertips, to possess the power inherent only in Mother Nature, could mean, at least in theory, that a physician could regulate a patient’s temperature, simply by attaching the machine to the bed on which the patient is lying. You could bring heat or cold, depending upon the need. Theories abound as to what one could do with such power. The ideas are limitless.

  I longed to take the machine apart for myself, to learn how Hyde had finally been able to construct one. I saw now why everyone was present to watch. A Steambox created is one thing to view, but a Steambox in action!

  I looked at the patient, and was just about to inquire what his illness involved, when Hyde interrupted me.

  “Who hired you? To which faction do you profess allegiance? Which of mine enemies,” Hyde said, his voice echoing louder and louder, “has seen fit to assign an English butcher as a spy upon my work? Tell me the truth, Purefoy,” he said, setting the whisky bottle down on a nearby table with a loud whack. “Do not lie to me! I want the truth!”

  “I have no idea who hired me,” I answered, still too fascinated by the Steambox to look away. “I answered an advert, and frankly, I can scarcely distinguish one miserable soul from the other. It is my understanding that everyone is your enemy, and I have the distinct impression that I am disliked with as much force as you are, sir.”

  “I doubt that,” Hyde retorted. “Who do you answer to, butcher?”

  “I have received no welcome from any faction. All in all, this has been a miserable experience. Forgive my impudence, but you wished for the truth. No one has done anything but insult me since I arrived. I suppose that I answer to you and you alone. I am more than happy to spy for you, upon your enemies and their experiments, if that is what you wish. But you must realize, I am unable to distinguish one physician from the other, so you will have to point me in the right direction of your target. As I have said, they all look the same to me, and their collective hatred of you is hardly admirable. I believe you have this dial set a little low,” I said, pointing to one of the knobs. “Unless you wish for a breath of cold air?”

  “I do not,” Hyde muttered. He stepped over, and made the necessary adjustment. He appeared cross, but the sound of the upset rumblings of the galleries seemed to cheer him somewhat. My truthful insults rustled through the observers with an alacrity that made me nervous, and I knew that, should Hyde dismiss me, I would find no sympathetic quarter.

  I felt incredibly foolish, and regretted my honesty, but then the patient gave a little moan. Hyde’s attention shifted.

  “It is time,” he said, moving to a table and picking up a pair of gloves. He slid one on, and without hesitating, he tossed me the other. Unwilling to ask questions, I put it on my hand, watching as Hyde moved to the side of the bed.

  He pulled on one of the brass tubes, freeing it from its fastenings. It sizzled and hissed beneath the escaping steam. Hyde handed it to me, and then switched his attention to the gurgling Steambox. He depressed one of the levers.

  Intrigued, I brushed the tip of my ungloved index finger against the end of the tube. I expected to feel the scald of steam, of the heat that I assumed had been regulating the patient’s bed at the optimum and desired temperature. Hyde, apparently, had other ideas and I was surprised that instead of feeling heat or steam, there was a strong suction. The pull was so strong that my finger was instantly attached. No heat burned me. No steam, although my mind continued to expect it.

  It took effort but I managed to pull my finger away. The only hurt was from the end of the tube itself, which had yet to cool completely, but otherwise I was fine. It was no more trouble than if I had brushed against a hot oven, but even that action would cause more pain than what my finger was experiencing.

  “At my command, I want you to press the tube against the patient’s mouth,” Hyde said as he furiously began to depress a lever. “Step closer, butcher. If you hesitate, then all of this has been useless.”

  My mind still thought it horrific to touch the patient with the brass tubing. I could feel the burn even through the glove, where the rest of the tube had yet to cool. I had only rested my finger against it for a second, so I knew of the lack of billowing steam. But, still! To press it against a patient’s mouth? Would it not be best to wait until the tubing cooled completely? How sure was I that it would not cause injury?

  Hyde pushed past me, and hovering over the patient, he spread a thick substance on the man’s mouth, covering his lips entirely. It was cloyingly scented, making my eyes water. Hyde muttered something about it protecting the skin, and I hoped he was right.

  Why had I expected the Theatre to be saner than the rest of Edinburgh? Nothing had made sense yet. Why begin now?

  “Now!” Hyde shouted.

  I pressed the end of the tube against the patient’s lips. Just like my finger had, the man’s mouth fastened against the tubing. His lips pursed slightly, parted just enough for his breath to be captured by the suctioning tube.

  A great shaking began to overtake the tube I held, trembling with such force that my entire arm moved with it. It hurt my shoulder, and made it necessary to balance myself against the side of the bed. The shock and tremor was incredible, making my bones ache and my head begin to throb. I could hear the shouts of the galleries. I could see the wide-eyed terror of the patient. I could see Hyde, his hands moving swiftly against the dials and levers, with an expression akin to madness effusing his face.

  “Enough!” Hyde shouted triumphantly. I realized then that he had taken my arm, and had forcibly raised it away. The tube left the patient’s mouth. Dazedly, I pressed my ungloved hand against his lips, fearing that I would feel the telltale
smoothness that announced a terrible burn. What if I had been wrong? What if the salve was meaningless?

  My fingers felt undamaged skin. The patient gave a great, shuddering gasp, and then fainted. I pressed my thumb against the side of his neck, and determined his heart was still beating steadily.

  “And that, gentlemen,” Hyde said, taking a triumphant step away from the Steambox, “is how you can properly harness the power of the soul!” He waved a small vial of smelling salts beneath the patient’s nose, and the young man immediately awoke with a low moan.

  The reaction from the galleries was a cacophony. Furious men stood all around. Their shouts echoed across the room. “Sacrilege!” “Impossible!” “Madman!”

  “You harness the soul,” I said, ignoring the clamor. “How is that possible?”

  Hyde shrugged. “I siphon the energy. Soul stays over there,” he said, pointing negligently to the patient. “I capture the energy.”

  “And keep it there,” I murmured as I stared with admiration at the Steambox.

  Hyde neither acknowledged nor refuted my statement. He busily turned off dials and depressed levers, causing the Steambox to make a loud, shuddering gasp. Another expulsion of steam filled the room, adding to the insane hubbub from above.

  Let me assure you, Miss Campbell, the patient was indeed uninjured. The siphoning did not hurt him in the slightest, although he was frightened by the tremendous shaking. He recovered admirably, and Hyde’s offering of the whisky bottle was much appreciated by the test subject.

  I inquired as to what Hyde intended to do with the stored energies of the soul. He ignored me for a while as he made a few notes in a moleskin journal.

  “What should I do with the stored energies, Purefoy?” he asked finally, not bothering to look up from the open journal. “What opinion does the English butcher have on such topics?”

  I laughed. “A good English butcher possesses the same opinion as a good assistant. What should you do with the stored energies, Dr. Hyde?”