She is simply so frail, so given to exhaustion, that even our game of whist, before the parlor fire, tired her. She does much to hide her weakness, and Hyde ensures that she is comfortable, refilling her glass often, and tucking close her shawl. His attempt at care and concern was alarming as always, since he does not bother with gentle talk or telling glances. He is gruff but constant, and that seems to suit Miss Whitcomb just fine.
Still, it is disconcerting to watch. I wish, for her sake, that Hyde possessed an inkling of pretty manners. The lady seems in constant distress, and Hyde’s rough wooing surely does not help matters.
Hyde did bring up, on our cold walk to our respective homes, the idea of possessing a weapon. Once we were out of polite company, moving among the still-restless crowd on the pavement, Hyde had much to discuss on the matter. He said that it was utterly stupid of me to not be protected by some sort of weaponry, and if I did not possess either a gun or a knife of mine own, then he would bring me something appropriate to the office tomorrow morning.
I was completely fascinated. I had not expected Hyde to be generous, and it seemed so strangely out of character that it took me a moment to respond. I finally managed to tell him that I am in possession of my butchering knives, but would be most appreciative of anything he thought wise.
Hyde lit up at the idea of my knives, and instructed me to bring them to the office tomorrow. I told him that that is where they reside, on my worktable. It was amazing to me that he had not noticed the bundle, wrapped and set in the far corner of my table, but he had not. He apparently respects my privacy as much as I do his.
I told him that I had the knives there since my arrival, since I only today received proper medical tools. In a pinch, I use my butchery knives as I see fit, and I told him that I am quite adept with the blades, although they are far larger and unwieldy compared to the treasures your father sent on. Hyde was fascinated by my admission, and demanded to see evidence of my butchering skills tomorrow morning. I told him to bring something from a butchery, some leg of lamb or roast, and I would be more than happy to show him my surgical capabilities.
It appears that he is as entranced by knives as I am, and he asked many questions about them. I told him that they were a gift from my father, a set to all of his sons. I admit I have never given the knives much thought, and although I have spent years utilizing them, back in London, I usually keep them on my desk for surgical emergencies.
I find myself anticipating his choice of appropriate weaponry. Such a strange man.
I am sad to report that I have not seen the mysterious Mr. Benge again, but the Indian is often on my mind. How could he not be? I did manage to ask Hyde more about him, yesterday at the office, but I am afraid that Hyde’s answers did little to satisfy my curiosity. I asked him what Benge meant by the term “Gentlemen.” They would be in touch? Was this something I should be concerned about?
“Undoubtedly,” Hyde had muttered. He was sitting before his desk, head propped up in his hand as he perused yet another medical tome.
“Then you must tell me at least a little bit about them,” I pressed. Hyde snorted loudly (his snorts are often his only answer to an unwanted line of conversation) and I had just about resigned myself to the unanswered mystery, when I heard him speak.
“The Gentlemen are friends to my brother,” he said, making great show of turning a page. “They fancy themselves investigators.”
“Investigators!” I said, relieved at such an unexpected and simple answer. Their involvement had little to do with me, specifically. It concerned only the murder. “Well. I suppose that is why Mr. Benge came to inspect the body.”
“He did not inspect the body,” Hyde retorted. He took a deep drink of whisky and turned another page.
Relief dissipated. No hope for a simplistic answer.
“I saw him inspect the body,” I said, when the silence became unbearable. “He cut into him, and . . .”
“Dog Benge is no physician,” Hyde said crossly. He glared at me with his strange eyes. “I am the physician. I was the one who inspected the body. Good Lord, Purefoy. Do you not understand anything at all?”
No. No, I do not. Apparently, my expression said as much, because Hyde muttered incoherently beneath his breath, his scowl darkening. He sighed loudly, and then spoke more clearly.
“The Gentlemen have very specifically defined tasks. In such matters, I answer the medical questions. No one else has the capability.”
“You are a member of the, ah, Gentlemen?” I asked. Instantly, I knew that was a bad line of questioning.
“Do not be an utter dunce, butcher,” Hyde snarled. “Of course I am not. As I have said, they are my brother’s friends.”
And yet he answers their medical questions? So very confusing.
“So, then, ah . . .” I paused, determined to not irritate him so greatly that he ceased speaking entirely. “Ah . . . then why was Mr. Benge present in the Theatre? What is his role within the Gentlemen hierarchy, if not to inspect the body?”
“He was here to inspect you,” Hyde said.
“Me?” I was stunned, my mind whirling. Inspect me? What? Why?
Hyde did not see fit to answer. He drank his whisky. He returned to his reading.
I could not shake the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that had settled upon my shoulders. What did Hyde mean? Certainly, I had seen the Indian watching me, with his serious, dark eyes. I remember feeling quite nervous before him, but he had been pleasant enough. Why would he possibly be inspecting me?
And even more important, had I passed whatever test he was administering?
Panic warred with my curiosity, fear at having been so strangely watched. I hated the great unknown, the feeling that everything was spinning out of my control. Inspecting me? Did these alleged investigators consider me a suspect? How had I managed to ignite interest?
And more important, how could I quash it?
It took me an hour to develop the least offensive question I could manage. There were many things I wished to ask, but the silence drifting from Hyde’s desk was absolute and heavy. I knew him well enough to realize this was not a conversational topic in which he was willing to participate, for whatever mysterious reasons. At best, he would suffer one more question, so I struggled to formulate the most pressing, and the one most likely to receive proper answer.
Hyde was concentrating on a stack of correspondence, the silence broken only by the steady ticking of a clock upon his desk.
“Did I pass inspection?” I asked finally. That seemed the most important. If I had failed, then surely that would require action upon my part. That nature of that action eluded me, but I decided it best to be at least partially prepared.
I was surprised to hear Hyde laugh, the amusement in his expression so startling that I instantly regretted speaking at all.
“Poor Purefoy,” he said finally, once he was able to speak. “You do not understand, do you?”
“That is why I am asking,” I said stiffly, trying to keep my irritation at bay. “It seems ludicrous to pretend otherwise. Ludicrous and ignorant. I always think it better to ask when I do not know something.”
“If you had failed inspection from Dog Benge, you would know,” Hyde said. “I can promise you that.”
And that, my dear Miss E., is the extent of what I managed to discover, with regard to the Indian. It still makes no sense to me, but from what I can gather, Trantham is involved with a group of men who have private investigation as a hobby. An amusement. I do not know how many of them there are, or really what they are about in detail, but I do know that Hyde is responsible for all medical questions they might have.
And I assume I passed the Indian’s inspection, although I am still puzzling what, precisely, is meant by that. Was he studying my character? Trying to decide if I was, in fact, the murderer? A horrible thou
ght! He asked me no pertinent questions. He made no inquiry. All of our conversations were related to the body itself, and he treated me as I would expect him to treat any physician’s assistant. No questions about where I was that night, or details asked about my knowledge of Beatie.
For the past few days, my mind has replayed the hours spent in the presence of the Indian. If I had realized I was being “inspected” then I should have behaved differently. I am thinking again and again of my appreciation of his knife, and hoping he did not read more into that than was intended. I should not have stared quite so much, imagining him amid the American forests. I should have been more conciliatory and respectful and . . .
Madness! I find it difficult to think of anything else. Again and again, my thoughts return to it. When I close my eyes at night, I can see the Indian, offering me the knife. I can feel his dark eyes watching me.
And I fear I must trust Hyde in this matter. Obviously, I passed inspection, since I do not know otherwise. Benge saw the truth, saw my clear grief, my innocence. Why they are interested in me is astounding. It confuses me. I cannot help but be concerned by what it could mean.
Is it just me, or are the peoples of Edinburgh loathe to adhere to normal behaviors? I think back on my time in the Highlands and remember only straightforward folk, who behaved in expected, normal patterns. Conversations were never confusing. Things were usually as they appeared. I find myself exhausted by the continual subterfuge, the mysteries, and long for a time when something, finally, is as it should be.
I breathe in roses, and am returned to more cheerful thoughts. To you.
Be assured, you shall occupy my every thought tonight. As you so often do.
Regards.
Chapter Eleven
October 8
Mitchell Boarding House
Miss Campbell,
Forgive my scrawl; I hope it is legible. My hand is shaking so much that I fear it impossible to write, and yet I am at a complete loss as to what else to do. I have a bit of time here, and the madness of doing nothing is making an already miserable situation worse. If I can, I will write, and take what pleasure I can from thinking of you.
I start again with terrible, terrible news. There has been a second murder. Mr. Banbury, my fellow Englishman. My neighbor. And again, it is as horrific as it was before.
He was discovered this morning in his room by Mrs. Mitchell. I had already left for the office, noticing nothing out of sorts. I was with Hyde when the message arrived. Mr. Stuart thought it best if I knew that there had been a second attack, and requested that I return to the boarding house as soon as possible. Which I did. Hyde insisted that he come along, and I was more than happy for the company.
We arrived amid the melee and confusion that so resembled the farce of Beatie’s passing. The same police were there, although this time they displayed a bit more enthusiasm for their case. The hallway was crowded, but we pushed our way through. I saw Stuart by his doorway, and he ushered us forward.
Banbury. My heart is still keeping its rapid beat, even though it has been hours since discovery. Again, I will keep my descriptions short. I am only telling you at all because you are you. You are my centering. My calm oasis in the face of a terrible storm. How could I write you and keep something this terrible out of my letters? I fear you would recognize the falsity of my words, and would take offense at my lack of honesty.
And so, I tell. But only enough so that you understand that I am in a terrible, terrible way. Another friend lost. One of the few who showed me kindness. I am exhausted by grief and shock, and wish with even greater fervency that I was far, far away from this place.
Banbury!
He was found in his room, with as grisly a scene as Beatie suffered. Blood everywhere. A terrible attack upon his person. Hyde immediately shouldered his way into the room, barking out that everyone was to stand back and give him space. I was not surprised that everyone obeyed. Even the wailing Mrs. Mitchell and the police did things precisely as demanded by Hyde.
I did not hesitate to follow. I felt dazed and stunned and deeply sickened, but I am, at heart, a physician’s assistant. My physician was in the room, inspecting the body. And so was I.
I had the terrible sense that this crime had been committed sometime this morning. It was all too fresh. Too new. Again, no robbery attempt. Nothing appeared disturbed, save for poor Mr. Banbury.
Forgive me the horror of telling you, but he was cut, repeatedly. Instantly, I checked his tongue, but it was in place. His eyes, however, were not. Neither were his ears.
Sweet Eugenia! Forgive me my honesty. I can barely stand it myself, and to share it with you? Well, there is no excuse. Forgive me, I beg you.
The Indian appeared again, Mr. Benge, while Hyde and I were busying ourselves with our inspection of the crime scene. He frightened me by his sudden presence in the room, his stealthy approach. I was too consumed with horror and determination to give him much thought, however, and it was not until hours later that I remembered his task of inspecting me.
Had he been sent by the Gentlemen to inspect me once more?
Again, he was polite, almost cheerful. He listened while the police began a more usual questioning, asking everyone where they had been the night previous and this morning. I answered truthfully. Last night I was at the office until late, and then at the bookshop until closing. I returned home. I saw only Mr. Stuart, who agreed on the same. This morning, I only saw the MacIntoshes, but that was upstairs at the dining table. Oh, and Mrs. Mitchell, who was overseeing the presentation of breakfast, alongside a serving maid.
I had not seen Banbury since Saturday late. He seemed in his usual foul mood, upset over some commotion at his work. I admitted that I had scarcely paid any attention at all; I had been intent on returning to my room and my waiting novel.
MacKay and Wallace were summoned as well, and they were as disagreeable and loud as always. I think they were intimidated by the presence of Hyde and the Indian, and they made themselves scarce as soon as possible. I cannot say that I miss them. Their complete and utter lack of humanity at terrible times such as these is astounding.
Banbury. I simply cannot believe that the man is gone. And so horrifically!
I must pause now in my terrible tale. Hyde has returned and we are taking my belongings away. I have been convinced to find other lodgings. Two murders is too much for even my stout constitution to take, and I willingly took Hyde up on his offer to find me another place to stay. More later . . .
I have returned to the letter now, and am in complete distress as to the details above. I am conflicted, however, with the desire to be absolutely honest with you, and the need to protect you from the terrors I have witnessed. It seems that, out of all the people in the world, you are the one with whom I should be the most honest. I also feel that you are the one I need to protect the most. And so, you might have noticed that I have blotted out a few words in the above paragraphs with concern for the exact nature of Mr. Banbury’s injuries. I have carefully spread a thin drop of candlewax across the words, light enough that you can scratch it out and read for yourself if you insist, but please, I beg you to keep the wax in place. I am in agony, thinking of your reading the horrific descriptions, and have almost surrendered the letter entirely and begun again. For now, the candlewax assures me that you are untroubled, which truly is the most important thing in the world to me.
I have been settled into a far nicer boarding house than Mitchell’s. It is still in Auld Toon, but I have a nice, private room, well above the basement, with a window that overlooks the bustling close. A window! Such luxury. I have already opened it a crack, letting in a healthy dose of air. The smell of coal smoke surrounds me, as does the chill, but the feverish grief is still upon me. I feel nothing but it, and I take comfort in the shouts that drift up from the pavement below. It sounds like life, and that noise is very
much what I need right now.
My room is larger than previously, with a far more comfortable bed and a proper armoire. A nice braided rug covers the wooden floor. There is a vanity and a desk, and my trunks fit beneath the bed, providing far more space than that to which I am accustomed. This is the MacGregor Boarding House, and it is run by a pleasant couple who insist on keeping a tidy household and pride themselves on their hearty meals, or so they claim. I have yet to meet anyone boarded here, nor have I enjoyed the food, but all in all, it seems a far nicer place than what I have just left.
I will certainly have no use for Hyde’s protective weapon of choice, a gleaming pistol, which I have tucked securely beneath my bed. As much as I appreciate his kindness, I think it unnecessary to have it lying about. This is a respectable place, but Hyde ignored my attempt to return the gun. So, it is in my trunk, where it should be.
The morning was horrific. My afternoon chaotic. And my evening—well, simply put, it was bizarre.
I never expected to have dinner with an Indian.
Mr. Benge startled me by being involved in my move to the MacGregor house. He was waiting in the carriage, dark and silent, as we finished loading my trunks. You can imagine my surprise at seeing him again, and, I will confess, my fear. He was dressed far more appropriately than he had been during my first meeting in the Operating Theatre, in a severe black coat and trousers that sufficiently hid all tattooing. His long hair was gathered back and made less noticeable by a hat pulled low across his forehead. His gloved fingers tapped impatiently against the top of a pearl-inlaid cane, and he sat in the shadows of the carriage, obviously intending to travel with us.
Hyde appeared displeased to see him but said little as we settled ourselves into the carriage. It was evident that Benge had not been present on the journey to Mitchell’s, but he was here now. I was beginning to think we were going to travel in abject silence, as the carriage fit into the endless flow of traffic, and I found that I no longer cared. Such tragedy and horror was overwhelming, and I was beginning to feel exhaustion settle in.
The Curious Steambox Affair Page 11
