The Curious Steambox Affair

by Melissa Macgregor

  At least that is my opinion. My observation.

  I saw that Hyde had brought the Steambox, and had set it up on a table close to Mr. Beatie. I realized then that I was still holding the shroud, and I forced myself to release it. I felt much too overcome with emotion, what with the reappearance of Beatie and the presence of a real Indian, that I am afraid I struggled to take a full breath.

  “Here,” Hyde said, in his usual sour tone. “I brought you this.”

  He handed me a mug of coffee, then shouted for the few lingering gawkers to get themselves away. The door of the Theatre closed with a resounding bang, but I was simply too startled to care. Hyde knew that I drank coffee? He was thoughtful enough to bring me some?

  “I was afraid of this,” Hyde continued, busily setting up the Steambox and plugging its tubes into the side of the examining table. “Although I decided that the odds of its being Mr. Beatie were scant. I am willing to wait for another body,” he said, and I realized then, with shock, that he was talking to me. “If you are uncomfortable, Purefoy, I certainly would understand why.”

  Coffee? Understanding? An Indian? It took me a moment to reply, I was so shocked.

  “I insist we continue,” I said, after a fortifying sip of coffee. “Beatie would be insulted if we did not, and I certainly refuse for any of the vultures to have him.”

  Hyde smiled, then continued to attach the Steambox tubes.

  All the while, I was aware of the Indian watching me, which was unnerving because of the things I have so recently been reading. I made a heroic effort to not stare back, but really, it was simply too thrilling to be in such close proximity to a true American!

  “I regret the brutal loss of your friend,” he said, his voice echoing through the Theatre floor. “But you must be assured that his spirit is at rest.”

  “Balderdash,” Hyde interjected, all traces of good mood vanishing. He scowled horribly at the Indian. “I told Simon there was to be no interference in this matter, Dog Benge.”

  “It has already been decided,” Benge intoned. He shrugged, another fluid move that made my mind race once more through the forests I imagined him tracking. “You know that as well as I do, Hyde.”

  Dog Benge! My mind reeled with the name. Was it a name? An insult? Later, I asked Hyde, who informed me that he was not stupid enough to insult an Indian.

  “Yes, well, be quick about it,” Hyde snarled. “We have much work to do and I would demand as little delay as possible.”

  I managed to get hold of my senses, and managed to politely inquire what, in God’s name, was going on.

  Dog Benge looked at me for a long moment, his dark eyes inscrutable. Just when I began to grow uncomfortable with what was obviously considered an idiotic question, he answered.

  “We have taken this project,” Benge said. “We intend to discover who murdered your friend and why. It is my task to examine the body, so that we might learn what the murderer intended for us to learn. And then we will begin our investigation.”

  “We?” I asked, but I could see Hyde vehemently shaking his head. I hushed instantly, and taking a step away from the table, I motioned the Indian closer to the table. He bowed his head in appreciation and then reached for the shroud.

  Even the sew-up job had been conducted poorly. Sipping my coffee, I watched as Benge began to run his fingers against the raised stitchery. It was impossible to not recall, with burning accuracy, the bloody body I had discovered. Seeing him again, in deathly repose, did little to clear my thoughts. Seeing him badly sewn was sickening.

  Miss Eugenia, I will draw the line on complete description here. I know your curious nature, and am in great admiration of it, and probably possess little ability to deny any answers you might desire. But I am at a disadvantage here. Letters are a strange, one-sided communication. I cannot see your face, gauge your expression. If we were talking, face-to-face, I would probably speak more descriptively. I certainly should not, since it is improper, but I know your keen love of science. You want to know, and so, if we were sitting before your fireside, I could likely be persuaded to tell more. But for now, I will keep this talk simple. As polite as it can be, considering the terrible circumstance.

  Suffice it to say, Mr. Beatie died from multiple knife wounds. It appears that he was bled to death. Hyde and Benge became involved in a heated argument when Benge demanded a scalpel, but it was eventually agreed that the wounds could be reopened for further investigations. They had to be.

  Benge’s only other suggestion was to use his own knife, procured from a leather holder attached to his belt. I very nearly fainted when I saw the thing, a great, gleaming blade with a wondrous hand guard, similar to what a sword possesses. My father has an immense selection of knives, made specifically for the butchery, but I had never seen anything as magnificent as this blade! It was lethal and powerful, and my mind instantly returned to the imaginary hunt through the American forest.

  Furious, Hyde handed over the scalpel. I was amazed to see him capitulate to anyone’s demands, but I found myself greatly pleased that he did. The Indian’s knife did not invite argument.

  What we found was so shocking that I hesitate to write it. It seems that poor Mr. Beatie’s tongue had been removed and taken, as were his vocal cords. Nothing else, save the many, many cuts covering his skin.

  Horrific. I apologize profusely for mentioning this at all, and hope you can forgive me. I am beginning to hate my own conversational choices. I am greatly struggling with the empty responses that a page bestows. How I need to speak to you! To see you! To apologize in person if I have brought offense with such an indelicate topic.

  Benge finished his study, which I must say was conducted with the utmost care and concern. He very carefully cleaned his knife (which he had used with great delicacy along with the scalpel), and I suppose he saw me eyeing the great blade appreciatively, because he handed it to me with another quick nod.

  “It is beautiful,” I said, my fingers feeling strangely natural against its hilt. I complimented the hand guard. I gave a careful swish, delighting in the feel of it in the air. The blade was even more vicious than I had first assumed, and when Benge held out a section of the shroud and motioned for me to cut it, I was thrilled that it did so seamlessly.

  Knives are my passion. I suppose they are in my ancestral constitution. A knife like this, well . . . even now, my fingers long to hold it once more.

  I thanked him and returned it with regret. Hyde glared at me impatiently, but I did not care. To touch a knife of that caliber was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and not even Hyde can dampen that enthusiasm.

  Benge told me that a friend of his in America, in Louisiana, handcrafted it for him as a gift. He seemed pleased that I appreciated it so much, and then, assuring me that the Gentlemen would be in touch, he left the operating floor as stealthily as he had arrived. I watched him ascend the stairs, wondering how it could be possible that he walked so soundlessly. The door opened, and then he was gone.

  The Gentlemen? Who were they? Were they involved with the wonderful knife? Why would they be in touch? Would they contact Hyde, or me? For what purpose? What reasoning?

  The questions raced through my mind. I will admit the idea of being so contacted caused an unwanted shiver. It seemed an ominous promise. Again, my curiosity was a necessary buffer, something upon which to concentrate!

  I wanted to ask Hyde more, but he was busily firing up the Steambox, and so my attentions shifted to the fantastic. To see the Box again was like a return to a very enjoyable dream.

  I refer now to your questions regarding the device. . . . It is roughly the size of the small cabinet in your father’s study, the one in which he keeps his important papers. I took the time to measure it today (twenty-two by fourteen inches). Its inner chamber is very deep. It is made entirely of wood, with various dials and knobs on its front. The top
is covered by six sets of brass levers. The Steambox is constructed so that it is run by steam, which is generated within. Several vents let out the burning air, but most of the steam and therefore the power is processed through the brass tubing, which is connected to the sides and back of the Box.

  The center section is a gathering place, or holding cell, for the power that the tubes collect. The steam blends with that power, and generates more, or at least that is what I believe it is meant to do. It is supposed to create a desired temperature, but I think Hyde has far better and larger plans for it. Keep in mind, no one I have heard of, save Hyde, has actually constructed such a thing, and I have yet to learn what, precisely, he intends to do with it at all. Or if it even works properly.

  I hope it makes more sense now. I would sketch a picture, but I am a horrid artist and feel sure that any such drawing would only confuse you further.

  Your father has a book, in his library shelves, which can explain it far better than I can. Upper shelf, northeast corner. I believe the title regards fantastic discoveries and fantasies, but I find that the precise wording has left me entirely.

  I did manage to ask Hyde, today, what he intended to do with it, with regard to Beatie. He said something about believing the soul had a lingering presence in a body after death. That seemed such a ludicrous idea that I almost laughed, but I have learned in my short time here that Hyde is a man of unreliable humor. Instead, I helped him set the dials to the desired temperature, which was well below freezing.

  We shot icy air into poor Mr. Beatie’s body. Hyde stared at the gauges for a long time, but he said nothing. I could not tell if the tubes collected any soul remnants at all and was unwilling to ask. I assumed that the answer was none of my concern, or else Hyde would say it.

  He did say that he was requesting another cadaver. I anticipate the Doctoral Council response. It should be a cacophony of outrage, should we be given the next body, which is likely.

  I anticipate not seeing a familiar face on the table, although I know I have developed more compassion than I possessed before. No one is nameless to me any longer.

  Residual power of the soul, remaining within a body? My mind races with the thought.

  The two carousers have returned for the night. No more singing for them, what with Beatie gone, but that does not dampen their enthusiasm or lower their decibel level. I am returning to Cooper’s novel now, and must say that my mental image of Uncas has changed forever.

  Thinking of you, from the depths of Edinburgh. . . .

  Chapter Ten

  October 3

  Mitchell Boarding House

  Dear Miss Campbell,

  Today I received my package and I am simply stunned by the generosity. The instruments and medical books are even better than I recalled, and I spent a happy hour this morning arranging them on my worktable to my liking. You can imagine how proud I was to be their new owner, and the fact that your father included his own medical reticule, well . . . I was pleased beyond words. No assistant possesses tools as great as a physician, and the fact that I do now is beyond my comprehension.

  Please convey my gratitude to your father, and tell him also that his trust in bestowing these tools has restored my faith in my chosen profession. I shall endeavor to do great things with them, as per his instructions. My only hope is that I am worthy of such bounty.

  Hyde appreciated them as well, and spent most of the morning thumbing his way through the texts and murmuring approvingly over my glittering haul.

  I think that he covets the set of scalpels. Rest assured, he will not be allowed so much as a loan. These things are mine!

  Which brings me to the best items in the package. The things selected by you.

  The scarf has spent the day firmly wrapped around my neck. Even now, I finger the fringed end, marveling at your knitting skill. It has kept the cold at bay wonderfully well, and when I press it against my nose, inhaling the scent of perfume, I am intoxicated.

  My wicked Miss E., do not think that I have not inhaled a hundred times already. I am surrounded by the scent of roses, which I know was your intention. I could not ask for a better remembrance of you (as if I require one! I fear that you are in my thoughts continually) and was greatly pleased to not only be in possession of a much-needed scarf but to suffer a tease!

  There might be miles between us, Miss Eugenia, but the addition of perfume to the woven strands is like a siren’s call. It enchants me. As I walk through the grim closes of Auld Toon, I feel you are with me, with every breath. A decadent secret, and a reminder that you are there, no matter where I go.

  Today I watched the airship churning its way through the skies, moving toward your Highlands, and I wished, oh how I wished, that I was on board.

  The wooly bothy blanket! Already, it has cut the chill from my room, and your kindness in sending it is greatly appreciated. Hyde was with me while I opened the package, and he almost took the bothy from my hands, he was so envious of it. Blankets of that caliber do not exist here—they are a Highland specialty—and Hyde made a ludicrous attempt at bargaining it away from me. Rest assured, he did not succeed. The bothy is mine, and there will be no man warmer this winter in all of Edinburgh, thanks to you.

  The shortbread is already gone. I made the infernal mistake of allowing Hyde to have one piece. . . . He was abjectly jealous of such a package and behaved with the sullen insistence of a child that I share. I gave him one small bit. In all my days of working alongside Hyde, this was the first moment I saw unmitigated pleasure effuse his face. His reaction to the taste made me fear I have competition for your affections.

  I believe I am a better admirer than Hyde, and have prepared a list of reasons why, precisely, you should favor me over the lunatic Hyde.

  I am pleasant. I drink little. I am pleasant.

  If those reasons do not convince you, then be assured I will think of others.

  The remainder of the shortbread was for me and me alone to enjoy, which I did. Your skill at baking rivals the knitting, and my only regret was that I did not limit myself to a few pieces. I miss it already.

  I take another rose-tinged breath, and turn my thoughts to my days here.

  The work is still consuming; Hyde and I are spending most of our time concentrating on the area of consumption. I am sorry to say that there is little progress, although both of us are convinced that a cure lies within our grasp. I am concentrating right now on several books of Eastern philosophy, and particularly medical texts of the Orient.

  It is slow, considering there is very little translated, but I have managed to find some in the Doctoral library. I have been informed that MacDougal and Rose have, in their possession, quite the library of translated texts, but I know better than to make inquiry.

  I had thought that Hyde’s obsession with consumption had to do with the delicate Miss Whitcomb. I watched her quite closely this evening at dinner, and although she is frail and exhausts easily, I have yet to see the telltale signs of the disease. She is not sequestered, and although she coughs occasionally, it does not appear to result in blood. I wanted to ask about her obvious illness, but I was simply unwilling to ruin such a perfectly good evening with blatant, rude questions.

  And such an evening it was! I daresay that Miss Whitcomb took special care with dinner tonight, in an attempt to cheer and comfort me after the horrific murder. A fish pie unlike any other I have enjoyed, filled with succulent haddock and slathered with potatoes heavily laced with butter! There were delicate prawns within it as well, and all was followed by a baked apple pudding. Absolute heaven, and paired with the wine . . . well, it made for a very merry party indeed.

  Miss Whitcomb was quite solicitous, worrying and fretting over my tribulation. She was concerned with my continued residence at the boarding house, frightened that the murderer would strike again. I assured her that there was no need
for alarm. The chances of a murderer striking again, in such a subterranean and awkward locale, are slim to none, and I see no purpose in procuring other lodgings.

  I am only here to rest, and Mitchell’s does not pretend a need for cheerful conversation and active social participation among its guests. I rise in the morning and depart. I return late in the evening. There is no need for pleasantries, no pretend friendships, no forced jovialities. In many ways, Mitchell Boarding House fulfills the most basic needs, and that is quite enough for me.

  Miss Whitcomb argued most determinedly, making me promise to always lock my door, and suggesting that I carry a weapon of some sort. Our table had a very animated conversation discussing the merits of various guns, and knives, and she blushed prettily as we teased her for her lack of knowledge of such matters. Miss Whitcomb possesses a delightful humor, and was quick to retort that only a foolish man would reside in the Underworld without proper weaponry, debated merits or not.

  She was also concerned with the lack of good dining at Mitchell’s, asking me to relay a typical meal offering and then gasping with horror. I was amazed by her concern for my well-being, for my alleged lack of good health! She complained about my gauntness in comparison to Hyde! Lunacy!

  Apparently, my attendance tonight at the Whitcomb table, my third invitation, gave her the right to fuss over my supposed ill-treatment. Even Hyde joined in, chastising me for selecting such a horrible boarding house, but I have said it before and will say it again, it was selected for me, and I have little desire to change, bad food or not.

  It was nice to be fussed over. We had brandy in the parlor, which, coupled with the wine from dinner, served to make Hyde of nearly pleasant personality. I am still horrified by his grisly solicitousness, when it comes to Miss Whitcomb, but she seems to tolerate his company.