This is the point where I falter. Where I struggle to draw the line between conversation and decorum.
Forgive me, sweetest Eugenia, but I am simply not myself tonight. I poured myself a glass of the Whitcomb brandy to settle my nerves, and have yet to touch it. I am impervious to the usual cold of my quarters. It seems a lifetime ago that I was at the Whitcomb table for my second dining invitation. . . . How could that only have been last night? How could I have sat there, laughing and conversing with Hyde and the luminous Miss Whitcomb, when all the while, my fellow boarder was suffering? When he was dying?
I intended to write you about the last night’s dinner as well, about the witty conversations, about the jesting! I concocted an entire letter in my mind, and intended to write about such trivial, unimportant things. Things intended to make you smile. And now this!
The guilt of merriment is heavy upon me. The burden of a night spent in oblivion. Already, it feels like a different life. I shall never look upon the queer little restaurant I attended tonight, or the Whitcomb parlor, with the same eyes. I am afraid that forever I shall feel guilty that while I was there, at either locale, an acquaintance of mine was breathing his last gasps.
I sound maudlin and dramatic. Unusual for me. I have never been much for causes, particularly fruitless ones. My grief and shock accomplish little, and yet I am outraged by his passing. The shock of murder, combined with the complete disregard for human life by others, has made me quite ill.
The police believe (for what it is worth) that he died sometime last night. . . . Was it while I was sitting with Hyde at the Whitcomb table? Would it have been different if I had refused cigars and brandy, and had returned home sooner? Might I have stopped the tragedy?
And an entire day, spent in oblivion! I rose this morning, unknowing that a body was adjacent to my quarters. I spent the day at the office. A dinner out. What if I had investigated? Could I have saved him?
These thoughts!
The pathetic police asked if the door was ajar when I returned, late yesterday evening, from the Whitcomb dinner. I said the truth, that it was not, and I knew this because it was extremely noticeable that the door was open tonight. It was closed this morning, when I left for the Operating Theatre. So, does that mean that the murderer was there? Did he stay amid the blood and chaos that covered the walls of the small space?
What sort of letter is this! Forgive me, please.
The hall is heavy with quiet tonight. I had no idea how accustomed I have grown to listening for Beatie, whistling his off-key ditties as he returned from another raucous evening. The reaction of his compatriots (how will I ever think of them as only two!) was strange to watch. Mr. MacKay and Mr. Wallace behaved as if Beatie was an unwanted interruption to their usual pattern. No grief. No shock. They voiced irritation that their plans for the night were necessarily delayed, due to the briefest of questions from the constable.
The chaos of my lowly floor, crammed full of police and fellow boarders, was a cacophony of noise. Mrs. Mitchell continually shrieked. Mr. Mitchell shouted. Mr. Stuart was there from his tavern, peering through a crack in his quarters’ door.
Strangely, I found the one most helpful was the cantankerous Banbury, who lingered in my open doorway alongside me. He was as ill-humored as ever, glaring and complaining about the terrific noise. He berated the pathetic policing. I managed to find a bit of solace in his constancy, in his humane responses. When he offered me his flask, I gladly shared his whisky, which would have been inconceivable to me even a day ago.
I sincerely hope that I have not distressed you, that by sharing the terrible events of my day, that I have not caused you misery. If so, you must forgive me. I have promised to tell the truth in my details. I simply never intended to tell you something this horrible in nature.
Beatie’s door has been locked, the body taken away in police custody. Mrs. Mitchell says the room will clean up, bright as new, come morning, and it will probably be rented a few days hence. He had very little by way of belongings, seemingly nothing of value. His quarters were even more sparse than my own, and the police do not think it was a robbery. Not that they care. Upon my queries, they informed me that, in all likelihood, the investigation was complete.
Rented in a few days. So quickly forgotten. Even his closest friends, MacKay and Wallace, were laughing and jesting between themselves within the hour. They repaired off to their beloved taverns and gaming hells, their merriment echoing down the stairs as they traipsed to the surface.
It was offensive, and while I do not require sad, drawn faces and pretend piety, I do think a modicum of respect should be given to the brutal murder of one’s closest friend. I cannot imagine any of my brothers behaving with such lack of thought. As MacKay and Wallace left, Banbury shouted a string of profanities, which ended in “This isnae Hogmanay!”
Suddenly, only three boarders remained. Me. Mr. Stuart. Banbury. I appreciated the fact that we all disappeared back to our respective quarters, doors firmly shut, in absolute silence. What does one say, when one’s neighbor has been so brutalized?
I never wish to see again what I saw in Mr. Beatie’s room.
I find myself missing home tonight, and yet it is not London that is occupying my thoughts. How I wish I could speak with you! How good it would be to see your face, to have you walk along the Loch with me. The fresh air would clear my thoughts. The silence of the hills would soothe me. And the company . . . well, the company is very much needed right now.
I find myself wondering what it is I am doing in this town. What it is I am seeking.
The shock of what I have witnessed makes me consider things with a clearer eye. The romance of my adventure is gone. I find myself wondering why I am here, in a dim, dismal cold room, buried beneath a bustling close. Why do I work alongside a truly horrible man? Why am I continuing where no one enjoys my company?
Why Edinburgh?
Again, I am dramatic tonight. I am terrible at it, but I find myself unable to shift away from dark thoughts. There is no cheer, only death, and misery, and I wish for nothing more than to be with you, and perhaps your sweet wisdom could remind me of what it is, precisely, I am trying to achieve.
Banbury is here now. He has brought in his own desk chair, and has managed to set it up in my room. He has poured a brandy for himself, and told me to keep on with my letter. He finds my silence far more soothing than his own thoughts.
Mr. Stuart followed, also with his chair, but, due to our cramped confines, he could only set it in the open doorway. He accepted a brandy and has commandeered my copy of The Last of the Mohicans. Silence has descended once more, and I must say, I feel infinitely better with such company.
Next letter will be better. I promise.
Chapter Eight
September 25
Hay’s Bookshop
Dear Miss Campbell,
I am pleased to say that I have recovered somewhat since last I wrote. I almost did not mail your previous letter at all, and instantly regretted it as soon as it posted. What sort of misery did I convey in those pages! Hardly the stuff a lady likes to hear, and I hope that I did not cause you too much distress. I am committed to telling you my every thought (or most of them, anyway) and I know I have been repetitive with such a wish, but that still does not excuse such a dreadful missive as you last were sent. I shudder to think of your receiving it, and I hope sincerely that it does not make you cease corresponding entirely. Be forewarned, I would be lost without you.
I have found that my senses have recovered with the brief passage of days, although I still cannot think upon that night without suffering again a flash of outrage and grief.
I received your third letter yesterday, and you must know that your words did much to rally my senses. I am beginning to think you are intuitive, or possess a sixth sense. Your undeserved praise of my paltry attempts at discover
ing a new city cheered me immensely. Your conversation restored my faith in what I am doing here. So, I thank you.
I have also been restored, temperamentally, by possibly the strangest and most unexpected of acquaintances. Amid all of this horror, Hyde has proven himself to be a very stalwart supporter. I hesitate to call him friend, still, because that would simply be inaccurate, but I was surprised, early Saturday morning, to hear a knock upon my chamber door. I had already decided to stay away from the office that morning. I knew that Hyde rarely appeared on Saturdays, together with the other physicians, but I tend to enjoy the solitude and quiet offered there for my research. Due to the horror of the night before, however, I planned on staying home, desperate to get myself somewhat recovered.
The knock surprised me. I had already heard my companions leaving for the day (one fewer than normal!). I had heard Mrs. Mitchell come downstairs, with a robust crew, intent on cleaning away the last of the terror. So you can imagine my surprise when I heard her call out a greeting, and then direct someone to my chamber door.
It opened to reveal Hyde. I must confess, words failed me. I am still, secretly, of the opinion that he materializes out of his misery every day at the office. Seeing him out of his element is ever a little jarring. There is always a moment at the Whitcomb dining table that I decide his presence is surreal.
“You live in the center of the Earth,” Hyde said, without preamble. “How unexpected.” He nodded to where Beatie’s door was open. “I take it that is the site of the murder?”
I said yes.
“And they are already cleaning?” he shouted, his voice causing Mrs. Mitchell et al. to freeze in place. “There has been a murder among us, and they are erasing evidence?”
I felt myself smile for the first time in hours. When Mrs. Mitchell began explaining that the police had given the go-ahead, that there was not to be any further investigation, I braced myself for Hyde’s inevitable response.
It was glorious. He was snide. Sarcastic. Hateful and cruel. And so obviously insulted by the mistreatment of poor, pathetic Beatie that he had Mrs. Mitchell sobbing within moments. I must admit, Miss E., that I did take a supreme pleasure in Hyde’s tirade. I know that is offensive, know it is inappropriate to so enjoy watching another get such a verbal beating (especially a lady!), but hearing Hyde vocalize my own desperate opinions was a triumph unto itself.
“Get your coat,” Hyde said, turning to me suddenly. “I find that I cannot abide this place at all. And lock up behind yourself, Purefoy. There is a murderer amongst us.”
His pointed glare, directed at Mrs. Mitchell, resulted in another bout of sobbing. I hastened to put on my coat and gloves, and locking up, I saw that Hyde had already mounted the stairs.
We did not talk again until we were well free of the confines of the boarding house. I was pleased that, for whatever reason, he had come to fetch me. The dismal grey rain was a jarring return to reality, as was the garish activity of the bustling close. The cries of merchants shifted my attention away from grief and shock. The precarious stairs required attention, so that I was blessedly taken away from my dark thoughts.
Hyde moved through the closes with the same agility as usual, the ferocity of his expression clearing us a nice pathway through the crowd. He made generous use of his walking stick, often whacking the legs of those who did not give way. He was oblivious to the stares, to the shouts, and instead curtly demanded that I keep up.
My curiosity was piqued when I realized he was leading us toward the funicular.
I had yet to explore the strange contraption, which rattles continuously up and down the mountainous slopes that comprise the city of Edinburgh. Heights, as you know, are not kind to me, and I also prefer the madness of walking through the impossibly narrow closes. To see Hyde marching toward the funicular station made me sigh. Again, with Hyde, it is always the unexpected.
He tersely ordered transport on a First Class carriage, a private carriage, which also surprised me. I was relieved that Hyde’s usual ill humor would not affect others, but still, this seemed a strange way to spend the morning.
The carriage was sumptuously appointed, with a tartan carpet covering the floor. Rich brocade-covered seats lined the walls, broken only by a small door on opposite sides. A porter held open one of the doors, ushering us inside. Hyde went in first, and after taking a deep breath, so did I.
There were viewing windows all around, sparkling and clean. I was dismayed, as I sat, to see the sharp incline of the track. The decline was no better, and I could not decide if it would be worse to go up or go down.
The platform was teeming with a rough sort of people, jostling their way onto their respective cars. The noise was incredible. I heard Hyde say something to the porter, who hurried to comply with whatever demand had been made. Hyde has that talent. When he says something, then chances are his requests will be fulfilled swiftly.
A wheeled cart drew to a halt alongside the platform, just to the side of our carriage. I saw that it was heavily laden with food and drink for sale. Two large mugs of wine were delivered to our carriage. I took one with a murmured thanks.
The door was shut, and before I could lift the mug to my lips, we began our precarious descent.
I could tell you of the splendid view, which was, indeed, impressive. There was a loud hiss of steam. A squealing of the brakes. And as we began to churn our way down the tracks, Edinburgh spread out beneath us like a medieval tapestry. The buildings crept by, since the funicular goes at a stately pace. The rails go alongside the pavement, so on one side you can see the pedestrians, while on the other you can see the endless carriage traffic. If it was not so difficult for me to enjoy such things, then I should think it a wondrous way to acquaint oneself with the city proper.
I will say that, should you ever come to Edinburgh (and I sincerely hope you do) then I will be willing to subject myself to the funicular experience again, because it is a fine mode of transportation. But for now, I concentrated only on my wine, and did my best to appear unaffected by our shuddering descent.
Hyde informed me, once we got underway, that he had heard the terrible news early that morning. He had been horrified to learn that it was at my boarding house. He asked if I knew Beatie well, and I said that I knew him well enough, considering that there are not many located on my floor. His apology over my loss of acquaintance was pleasing, as was his outrage over the shoddy treatment, and ultimate dismissal, by the police.
He then asked me a very strange question, but one that had admittedly run through my mind on several occasions. He asked me whom did I consider to be the murderer.
I told him that I did not know, and when he said that, in all likelihood, it was someone comfortable with such strange, subterranean accommodations, I heard myself agreeing.
My mind raced with thoughts, curiosity overwhelming. The idea of it being someone I knew, with whom I shared such tiny space was mind-boggling. In my mind’s eye, I considered them all, trying to decide who could do such a thing! Why would they? What possible motivation would lead one to murder, especially someone as harmless as poor Mr. Beatie? The concept of its being a fellow boarder was both horrific, and I must admit, intriguing.
I told Hyde then the details of my fellow boarders. What I had noticed. As I talked, sipping wine, I could feel myself calm for the first time in hours. Hyde’s expression was intense as I listed what I had noticed in others. What I had observed. I told him of the usual patterns of my fellow bachelors on the subterranean floor. I also told him the specific details of what I had seen when discovering the body.
I felt better, immensely better, confiding in Hyde. Not even Banbury or Stuart had provided such peace of mind. Hyde’s questioning was so along the lines of my own thoughts that I felt the madness and confusion of my grief lifting. He was perceptive, and validated many of the half-formed ideas with which I had been struggling.
The return of curiosity, I think, is a necessity. Being curious, I can push aside for a moment the pain of grief, the rush of fear. The unknown identity of the murderer results in a great sense of helplessness. Curiosity, at least, occupies my mind. I find that it is better to apply my scientific techniques on what is beginning to feel an impossible problem. My friend was murdered. The killer has not been discovered. That in itself is a terrible mystery, but by centering my thoughts upon my own questions I should be able to keep all grief and fear at bay. At least, it is a hope.
“I cannot believe you choose to live in that place,” he said finally, after a hefty drink of his wine. “What sort of man decides to live without windows? Without air?”
“It was my assigned accommodations,” I said. “Hardly my own decision.”
“I have yet to notice your obeying any of their decisions thus far,” Hyde countered. “You must realize there are better accommodations available.”
“It hardly matters,” I replied. “I only need a place to sleep. When not in the office, I am usually at the bookshop.”
I pause now, remembering to tell you. I am at the shop tonight, and have purchased you a copy of Sir Walter Scott’s The Bride of Lammermoor, as requested. I made sure to procure the nicest copy they have, and will post it tomorrow. I have also been so bold as to include a copy of Fenimore Cooper’s novel as well, since that is what I am reading. I think you will enjoy it as much as I have, and although I have only just read through the second chapter, I am consumed with the splendor of America! If you would like, read it. Give me your thoughts. Tell me if you are as fascinated by the verdant forests described. . . . In many ways, it reminds me of your Highlands.
The Curious Steambox Affair Page 8
