The Curious Steambox Affair

by Melissa Macgregor

  I have been invited back for next week, and Hyde seemed amenable to the idea. (He remained silent, which I know to be his form of acceptance.) I was also given a bottle of brandy to bring home with me, to ward off the chill, which will be greatly appreciated in the nights to come.

  The other interesting bit I learned tonight is that Miss Whitcomb is interviewing one of the girls in my boarding house. One of the horrible MacIntoshes is, apparently, in need of work, and possesses such skills that can be utilized as lady’s maid. She asked my opinion of the girl, but since I have not made acquaintance, I said that I did not have one, but (and here, you must forgive my lie) I did say that the family seemed fine and quality, and that I felt sure that the girl would be worth speaking with on the matter.

  I sincerely hope that you do not take offense at my falsehood. I very rarely lie at all, and I consider myself an honest person. But Hyde was watching me with his strange eyes, his expression expectant. And I decided, then and there, that the MacIntoshes, for all of their annoying and loud habits, were people in need. They were not of the Upper Merchant sort. They, like me, have temporary lodgings. For all I knew, they were awaiting just such an opportunity, and far be it from me to stop it.

  And so, I lied. I vouched for a truly annoying family who possesses poor manners. But Hyde grinned, which was almost as alarming as the falsehood itself.

  I can hear the return of the terrible threesome, back from their night gallivanting around Auld Toon. Mr. Beatie is singing a completely off-key ditty, which means that I must retire for the evening, and hope that a pillow placed against my ear will drown out the horrific sound of his voice.

  Regards.

  Chapter Six

  September 17

  Theatre office, Hyde

  My dear Miss Eugenia Campbell,

  I am in possession of your letter, which again pleased me greatly. You have no idea the brightness and light that your words convey in this cold, steam-soaked city. I received it late Friday, and by Monday morning the pages were creased and worn from my innumerable readings. You must know that your letters are the bright spot in an otherwise weary day. They are the only brightness, and I tuck them into my coat pocket, and allow myself the pleasure of rereading them whenever there is a still moment at the office.

  And to send a jar of marmalade! It is like orange gold, certainly worth as much. It and it alone has made breakfast at the boarding house bearable, and I am rationing myself quite strictly with it, to stave off the dreary day when it is gone.

  I am at the office late tonight. Hyde left nearly an hour ago, but I have been too immersed in research to leave at my usual hour. Now that I am finished for the night, I find myself loathe to set out into the chill.

  Instead, my mind is turned to the Highlands. It is focused there. I sit at my worktable, with the instruments cleared away, and write to you. I wonder what you are doing right at this moment. It is twilight out, and I know that sometimes you like to walk about the garden. Perhaps you are sitting before the fire in your father’s parlor. You might be reading a novel.

  If I might be so bold, Miss Eugenia, I would like you to know that tonight, my thoughts are centered very much on the Highlands. On you.

  It was an incredibly taxing day, far too much of it spent in a needless argument with MacDougal and his assistants. It seems that I have come to the bottom of the professional jealousy with regard to Hyde. All the animosity, or at least a very large part of it, stems from Hyde’s continual acquisition of cadavers. Forgive me if this is an indelicate topic, my dear Miss Eugenia, but I have faith in your capacity for tolerance, given your father’s profession. You know that cadavers are used for scientific study. You also know that the Crown is extremely protective of which physicians receive said cadavers and limits their number per year, so that objectively, all doctors are given fair chance at the new arrivals.

  The good news is that there is currently a shortage of cadavers, good news on a humane level, but poor news with regard to research. Your father and I often discussed this, and he is of the firm opinion that being a Highland scientist and physician had its merits in this particular instance. In rural outposts, the Crown often assigns the cadavers on a location basis. Being in a small town or village can mean a lesser volume of bodies, but in proportion, there are fewer scientists to compete for the Crown’s bestowing. In remote areas, due to the Crown’s lack of interest in transporting said cadavers, they are given, historically, to the nearest physician for his own researching needs. That is, of course, if the families and next of kin agree to surrender their loved ones for the higher purpose.

  A city such as Edinburgh, home of the illustrious Doctoral Council, is another matter entirely. The shortage remains, and there is a plethora of physicians located here. All of them require the use of cadavers to forward their scientific projects. The bureaucracy is maddening, the process with which one must petition the Crown Office for possession of the next available cadaver is endless. An extreme amount of paperwork is required. A horrific wait for approval. Favoritism is alleged, as are rumors of money exchanging hands, thereby greasing the bureaucratic wheel. And there are so very few bodies available!

  Today, I discovered that none of this applies to Hyde. His absolute Crown approval extends even to this matter. There is no process that Hyde must undergo to procure a cadaver, nothing other than his making a simple request. The next one, invariably, is assigned to Hyde. No fuss. No papers. No frantic bargaining. Simple delivery to his office, upon demand.

  How can this be true? Hyde’s arrangement with the Crown is as fantastic as his work. My mind boggled with this knowledge, curiosity an avalanche. How on Earth had he managed the impossible? Did he have regular audiences with the King or with the royal advisors? What great work had Hyde done in the past, to so afford himself this luxury? What made his name so respected that a simple request resulted in his every satisfaction?

  Why I am found to be at fault in any of this is staggering. I have grown so accustomed to being ignored entirely by my fellow workers that I fear I have become spoiled to my solitude. Arriving today at the office, to find what can only be described as an angry mob gathered outside our door, was a complete surprise. I learned today that I quite like being left completely alone. Being treated like a leper has proven very useful to me, and I instantly took offense at this morning’s pattern being otherwise.

  Voices were raised. Challenges issued. And I, sipping my morning mug of coffee and still glowing from receipt of your letter, was so astounded by this bizarre turn of events that it took me a moment to catch up, conversationally.

  MacDougal’s assistant took pity on my obvious ignorance. He (and I have endeavored to memorize his name . . . Mr. Rose, although I must assure you that it is a ridiculous moniker for such a sour, officious man) informed me of Hyde’s talent for securing cadavers for himself. Rose expounded on the vast unfairness of it all, implying an obvious graft, a gross mishandling of Crown resources, and on and on until my head finally ached with the ferocity of his argument.

  It seemed that Hyde had gotten approval for the next cadaver available, even though he had been granted the previous two. I was expected to provide an accounting, a reasoning, an explanation! When, truth be told, I was euphoric that Hyde possessed such a capability. To secure us cadavers at whim! I found his luck staggering, and since it is only to my advantage that he possess it at all, I politely ignored all demands at apology. As if I would!

  I was also pleased that we would be conducting our research in a more hands-on capacity. As much as I love the written word (and truly, my dear Miss E., I do), I also enjoy a more active science. I can only assume that this is further study into our quest for the consumption cure, although I am at a complete loss as to why a dead body would be needed, considering most of the remedies I have been cataloguing involve living, breathing people. Still, it is Hyde so I have grown accustomed to the
absurd.

  The angry group arranged outside our office door was absurd in its own way. Too many days spent with my conversational attempts ignored did not endear any of them to me. I can hardly see why I should succumb to their demands now. Even if I agreed with their indignation, I should hardly behave in accordance with their wishes.

  I am obstinate, I fear, upon occasion. I hope that does not trouble you. I like to think that I am slow to form an opinion about a person’s character. I endeavor to provide ample opportunity for someone to reveal his true nature, without prejudicing him with my own thoughts. But, unfortunately, once my good opinion is lost, I find that it is almost impossible to regain it. I am sure that it is a terrible shortcoming, but I find no help for the matter at all.

  I very resolutely shut the door against the rabble, and took care to lose myself in my usual morning routine. The noise of complaint could be heard quite clearly though the door’s inset pane of frosted glass. Under more normal circumstances, I would never have behaved so rudely, but I felt assured that Hyde’s notorious temperament would be a strange ally in this matter. He could hardly blame me for ignoring them, and I think he would have taken a perverse pleasure in witnessing my rudeness, if he had bothered to present himself at a timely morning hour.

  How Edinburgh has changed me!

  My disappointment, then, at finding the office cadaver-less was . . .

  I break, my Miss E. It seems Hyde has returned to the office tonight.

  Forgive me for my strange, broken thoughts, but Hyde has come back unexpectedly. At first, he was viciously adamant that I was still here involved in some strange sabotage of his office. I apologized profusely, and was quite horrified to notice the lateness of the hour. Twilight is long gone. I can hardly blame him for being suspicious (which he is, by nature, anyway). I quite lost myself in my letter to you, and I hurried to tell him that I was, still, untouched and uninterested in any of the so-called factions of the Doctoral Council. There is no sabotage, and I invited him to take a cursory tour of the office, to reassure himself that all was as it should be. He did so, and appeared to satisfy himself that I had not strayed from my worktable and chair. His anger receded when it became apparent that I had not betrayed him and his research.

  I was bold enough to chastise him for even suggesting that I would be in league with those abominable people who had shouted insults beyond the door this morning. I had neglected to tell Hyde of the event at all, being so lost in my research. I then regaled him with the details of the terrible morning. He laughed, which was a surprise, and was keenly interested in my diatribe against all things Council related.

  I then spoke of you. I showed him your letter (rest assured, I did not show him its contents) and explained that I was merely enjoying the peace and tranquility as an opportunity to write a response. I said that, had he paid any attention at all during the day, he would have noticed that I had taken several moments to reread bits of your letter, when not occupied with my research. Hyde snidely replied that I had taken more than several moments, and that he certainly noticed that my mood had improved considerably after such readings.

  Bad tone aside, Hyde was convinced of my innocence. He insisted that I finish my letter. He asked me a great many questions about you, and I feel sure you would have blushed beneath the mountain of praise that I heaped upon you. He was fascinated by your love of all things scientific. I spoke of your great beauty. Your infinite charms. I described your laughter, and your quick and pleasing smile. Forgive me, Miss E., for being so bold in telling you, but again, I only wish to relay the truth in all matters. Every description I made was the absolute truth.

  Hyde told me to take my time with writing such a beguiling lady, and so I have returned the quill to paper. He has settled himself at his worktable, and has poured two glasses of very fine whisky. We drank to you.

  I do, however, find it increasingly uncomfortable to write with even the politest audience. Hyde is rarely polite, but he is making a feeble attempt to not stare over at my parchments. He has told me, several times, that he sends you his very best. Which alarms me, but the message is relayed, nonetheless.

  I find myself jealous of sharing even a moment of your time and so I am regrettably bringing this letter to an end. A quick read-through dampens my good mood. What topics I chose to discuss! Surely they are not the sort in which you possess an interest, and if I were not being avidly observed, then I should tear it up entirely and begin again.

  And so, I will answer your questions with regard to the Steambox at another, more private time. I will also tell you more of the wondrous Fenimore Cooper novel, which I intended at the onset of this truly dismal missive.

  Hyde says that if we hurry, we can make tonight’s postal ship. And then there is a new restaurant that might interest me, if I am hungry.

  Such a strange day.

  Yours.

  Chapter Seven

  September 21

  Mitchell Boarding House

  Dear Miss Campbell,

  It has been a dreadful night. I did not think it possible to write, due to the shocking turn of events, but I find that my only solace rests in our correspondence. Even on the grimmest days, your letters are my primary light. Tonight, my only hope lies within the thought of writing you. If anything can save me, then I know it is this.

  But where to start? How can I? The horrors I have witnessed make me unwilling to convey them. Already I have sat here, at my narrow desk, staring down at the little bit I have managed to scrawl.

  My neighbor, Mr. Beatie, was found dead tonight in his room. I discovered him.

  Again, the quill stills against the page.

  I am trying to decide the depth of detail that I should give in this particular matter. I am accustomed to telling you my every thought, my every observation, and find that I have become spoiled to such a luxury. Discussing this feels grotesque, although I know you have acquaintance with the macabre, due to the necessity of being in the family of a physician. I know this, and yet I am still unwilling to write down the precise details of what I observed.

  Mr. Beatie.

  Again I sit, unsure of what to say next.

  The boarding house is eerily quiet, now that the gawkers and gapers have left. The police (I can hardly bear to call them police—one constable, one aide) have left, and I have to say that they were terribly inefficient in their line of questioning. I do not know if this is the sort of thing they investigate often. I assume so, considering their decidedly lackluster enthusiasm and care toward the scene of the crime. They behaved as if they were conducting a social call instead of an investigation.

  I had heard that Edinburgh’s police system was still based on rural proportions, with scant policemen and one constable, which is bizarre considering it is such a large place. Most of the crime for the city is handled by a division of the Crown Office, or at least, it is supposed to be. For Auld Toon, unfortunately, the Crown has little care or concern, so we are given the police.

  I learned that, due to the lowly stature of Mr. Beatie, of his assumed unimportance in society, the Crown Office would not be involved in what little investigation would be conducted. They are contacted in only the most prestigious cases, and the location being Mitchell Boarding House, in itself, did not warrant Crown attention. Here is a man, or so I was told, who was little more than a drunk, unimportant in the regard of society, and no matter that his death was violent and grisly, there is still little interest in pursuing his killer.

  I am sickened. I am stunned. I am horrified. To grant such little value to a human life! Any life! Forgive me if I am delusional, but I believe that if any man is killed, regardless of social station, then his murder must be investigated with the same care given to someone who has lined the Crown coffers.

  I know what I saw, within the confines of his room. I know the horror. And to have it so resolutely di
smissed, only because Mr. Beatie is an unknown and an undesirable?

  What sort of place is Edinburgh?

  I am rattled. For all of my time devoting myself to medical study, I have never, until tonight, witnessed such scope of unmitigated violence. I have been in contact with many research cadavers. I have sat at several deathbeds. I have seen death before, watched it come and take a human from this world to the next, and yet I have never glimpsed the gore I have seen tonight.

  Murder is not a thing that one can easily wrap one’s mind around.

  I will instead keep description to a minimum. I was the first to discover him. I had just returned from a late dinner at the odd new restaurant to which Hyde has gotten me addicted. I was planning on telling you all about it, describing the tiny little windows that fill an entire wall, floor to near ceiling, that can be accessed and, when opened, each displays a separate dish available for purchase.

  There are so many dining choices available, everything from roast meat to fresh bread slices to puddings. The windows are quaint, the corners of each riotous with ornate brass framework, decorated with filigreed outlines suggesting wine goblets. The culinary selection is marvelous, the choice difficult. Decision reached, personal menu crafted, a coin is inserted into a small brass slit at the top of the window. That releases the latch, and a grasp of a tiny brass knob opens the selected window. There is a great whiff of steam upon one’s fingers, and one’s desired treasure is available for the taking.

  I wanted to recall that in more marvelous detail, and was returning home in quick anticipation, when Fate decreed my letter would be far more horrible in nature.

  His door was ajar, which is unusual, considering Beatie always takes great care in locking up before he goes out on his usual night of carousing. I stepped toward it, fearful, I must admit, that he had kept a candle burning unattended. Keep in mind that I was still very fully aware of the dire warnings of his usual habits, of his penchant for burning down places. I intended to knock, to investigate, to blow out the offending candle, but the room was dark as I approached. I was holding my own candle (as always necessary, considering the lighting of the hall is nonexistent). I held it aloft as I pushed open the door, and called out his name. . . .