The Curious Steambox Affair

by Melissa Macgregor

  I was startled when Mr. Benge spoke.

  “You appear to be in grave danger, Mr. Purefoy,” he said, as our carriage careened down the steep decline. “I am pleased that you are uninjured.”

  “I am not in danger,” I replied. “It only seems that my friends are.”

  “Danger is danger,” Benge replied with a shrug. “Friends are friends.”

  “You should not be here,” Hyde said. “I already told Simon that none of you were to be involved—”

  “I am here only to be of assistance,” Benge interrupted smoothly. “To Mr. Purefoy. This truly has little to do with you, Hyde.”

  Hyde’s fury was instantaneous, and determined to stop what was certain to be a blistering attack, I spoke without thinking.

  “You are here to inspect me?” I asked, hating the words as soon as I spoke. Hyde switched his glare to me, but I was too worried about insulting the Indian to give Hyde more than a passing thought. Benge watched me with his glittering dark eyes, and I could feel the heaviness of silence descend upon the carriage.

  “That was before,” Benge said finally, with a half smile. “All of that is in the past now. I am here to offer assistance, as the need should arise.”

  “What sort of inspection?” I asked. Beside me, Hyde muttered and cursed, but I was simply too distressed to care. After all I had been through, it seemed acceptable to me to inquire the Indian’s opinion with regard to my character. “Forgive me for being rude, but I wish to know more. Did you consider me a suspect? Do you again?”

  “No.” Benge’s eyes flashed with barely suppressed mirth. “And I can hardly blame you for inquiring, Mr. Purefoy. I would have been disappointed if you had not. I met with you, at the Theatre, as protocol only. Trantham had already assured me that you were innocent.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked, unable to stop myself. “How did he know that?”

  “Because your every emotion and thought is continually displayed upon your visage,” Hyde answered. He leaned forward, bestowing his terrible grin upon Benge. “You are not to be here. Your presence causes further distress. Surely the situation is dire enough without your participation.”

  “Your grief is unmistakable, Mr. Purefoy,” Benge said, his gaze steady upon Hyde. “Your innocence is without pretense or falsehood. You were destroyed alongside Mr. Beatie, as only an innocent can be. Today was no different, and Dr. Hyde . . . ,” he said, his smile suddenly as terrible as Hyde’s own. “Hyde, you cannot stop what is already in motion. Not even you possess that power.”

  “Why do you consider me endangered?” I asked, disliking the feel of imminent violence that was beginning to permeate the carriage. Forgive me again, dearest girl, but I was completely and utterly at my wits’ end. What little control I retained over my own volatile emotions was beginning to slip. I could feel it, could sense that my own reaction to the nightmare of the morning was beginning to take form.

  I feared it, feared this complete loss of control. Frustration over the morning would easily shift into temper. Temper into an uncontrollable rage. If an altercation broke out between the two men with whom I was sharing a carriage, I knew well enough that I would be unable to remain uninvolved. I would fight as well, but the question remained whom I should hit first. Both men? Hyde? Benge?

  Forgive me. It has been a difficult day, for all of us, and I feared that, should one misstep be made, then a melee would ensue. In all fairness, we would all feel better for it. Helplessness is such a terrible feeling, and aggression, even misplaced, can soothe unresolved terror.

  I felt my fists tighten as if from their own accord. Benge noticed the action, and his rich laughter suddenly filled the carriage, bursting the dark mood like a much-needed bolt of sunlight.

  “You are obviously endangered,” he said, settling himself into his seat. “I know you consider it coincidence, as only a proper innocent would. But there are no coincidences. Not when it comes to murder. We are here,” he said, motioning to the window. I could see that the carriage had drawn even with this new boarding house. Rain splattered against a nice sweep of front steps. Windows gleamed with welcoming gaslight.

  “Hurry and unload,” Benge said. “Dinner is mandatory. I am half-starved, and I daresay you are as well.”

  I was. I had forgone breakfast this morning (which, again, seems a former life!) and had been too traumatized to eat anything at all. Now that it was mentioned, hunger was sharp and overwhelming.

  We unloaded quickly, the footmen shouldering my trunks and making their way through the grey rain. I was only afforded a quick meeting with the MacGregors proper. They had obviously dealt with Hyde earlier and were in no mood for his unpleasant conversation, so I was hurriedly shown my room and given directions to the parlor and dining room.

  Trunks unloaded. Keys handed over. Hyde took my arm as we turned to the front door and spoke in a low tone.

  “Confide nothing in the Indian,” he said tersely. “Nothing of a personal nature. The less he knows of you, the better. Tell all about the victims, certainly, but nothing of yourself.”

  “All right,” I said. It was unlike Hyde to be so adamant on any topic. He seemed to read the question on my face (which, I have been told, is a fault of mine) and then sighed raggedly.

  “Or tell him everything. It is nothing to me, Purefoy, only a little friendly advice. I have no idea why the Indian has taken such an interest in your situation, but it cannot be good. I, for one, would hate to be so observed by my brother and his horrid friends, but Benge is not someone you can easily dissuade. His offer of assistance is unusual, and I fear it is an attempt to alleviate his boredom. The boredom suffered by my brother and his friends is legendary. I would hate to be an amusement, so if I were you, I would keep the details of my private life to a minimum. I do not see you confiding in Mr. Whitcomb at our Thursday dinners.”

  “Why would I?” I answered. “Privacy is not something I surrender easily. My life is of no concern to Whitcomb.”

  “Good man,” Hyde said, looking satisfied. “But at least Whitcomb can comprehend the idea of friendship. I am not sure Benge can. He is not from here,” he said pointedly.

  “Neither am I,” I responded instantly. Hyde laughed.

  “If only that were not so obvious,” he muttered, and then we were at the carriage and the impatiently waiting Indian.

  We dined at the strange little restaurant with the windows. Benge inspired a myriad of startled looks as he walked into the crowded space, but he appeared completely oblivious to the stares. I must amend my earlier assertion that his hair was not as noticeable with the addition of the hat. It was not as noticeable while seated in a carriage, but beneath the gleaming gas lamps of the restaurant, it was clearly evident that a long, single black braid trailed down the back of his coat. Everyone noticed, particularly with Benge’s removal of his hat. A murmur went through the crowd, the noise and interest making me even more exhausted than I already was.

  Hyde sighed miserably and called for a table close to the fire. Benge, oblivious to the interest his person generated, sat down, and immediately ordered a bottle of a dark red Bordeaux.

  Which did manage to cheer Hyde considerably.

  I truly do love this queer little restaurant, set amid the hustle and bustle of the closes. If I had not been here previously, I might have missed it altogether. It is nondescript on the outside, dark grey stone, but the windows are cheerful and kept clean of the constant soot and grime present all around. The variety of foods offered, visible through the small glass windows inset in the wall, changes with great frequency. As I have said before, you drop in a coin or two (into a small slot at the top of each window) and the lock is lifted, allowing the brass knob to be turned and pulled. There is a single plate of your selected item, and I spared a glance through the open window, curious to see how this sort of thing worked. There was a kitchen
beyond, full of a bustling staff, which replaced each item taken with a fresh plate. The smells were incredible, as was the heat from the myriad of ovens and stoves.

  I would like to say that we engaged in interesting conversation, but we did not. This was only about eating. Only about drinking. Benge called for a large carafe of coffee (drinks are ordered and brought by white-aproned waiters, and have nothing to do with the queer window arrangement), which did wonders to revive me. Other than that, we dined in virtual silence, but it was without rancor. Forgive me for being fanciful, but this silence was what I imagine hardened warriors feel after battle. What is there to say, when one has borne witness to a gruesome end? What sort of pleasantries are appropriate?

  And so, here I am. Ensconced in the MacGregor house. The bothy looks inviting across my bed. The sounds of the world outside soothe me.

  I wish to hear from you. Want to know the details of your days. Wish beyond anything that I could be near you. That I could hear your voice. See your smile.

  For now, I will listen only to the sound of rain falling beyond my window. I will hear the shouts of carriage drivers as they weave their way through the streets. I will feel the steamy, coal-streaked air against my skin, but my mind . . . my mind! It will be with you.

  Regards.

  Chapter Twelve

  October 11

  MacGregor Boarding House

  Dear Miss Campbell,

  It is snowing outside. Beautiful, perfect flakes are drifting beyond my window. I can see them swirling beneath the lamplight of the street, moving and dancing in the wind. It makes me think of you, wondering if it is snowing in your beloved Highlands. I assume that it is, or that it has, and this great curiosity overtakes me. I hate not knowing your details.

  I have not heard from you since I received the package, and your letter was dated before I sent on the awful news of both Beatie and Banbury. Since the arrival of the package, I have heard nothing. I hope that I did not offend you with my terrible honesty. I have spent hours worrying about my choice of conversation and wishing desperately that I had not spoken of such matters. The idea of your being insulted, in being traumatized by my sharing of the horrible occurrences, fills me with dread and regret.

  Please accept my apology. This great emptiness of the postal account box is driving me mad, and I fear that it is my own poor choice of conversation that has caused it. I can hardly blame you for not wishing to speak to me. What sort of gentleman discusses murder with a lady?

  In my defense, I wanted only to be completely truthful with you. I wished to share the details of my life, and in return, hear yours, no matter how troubling or distressing they might be. Now, the great silence has descended upon our correspondence, and I wish only that I had wooed more appropriately.

  I feel a great ineptitude in this matter. I have never courted before, and have realized (in the quiet passing of days) that I might not be adept at such things. I think back on my time in the Highlands, and I chastise myself for my poor pursuit of you. I remember the myriad times I lingered in your father’s office, determined to catch a glimpse of you. I do not remember any conversation, but surely I could have forced one!

  I remember when I waited after church, wanting to see you walk by with your friends. How much easier would it have been if I had called out to you? If I had signed my name to your dance card at the Andrews ceilidh? If I had waltzed with you, and then spoke of the moon and stars and poetry? Surely that would have been better. More appropriate.

  These things trouble me greatly, and it is easier to think in hindsight of a hundred thousand things I could have done differently, but I confess, I have a great shyness when it comes to you and am ill-suited to all things pretty and proper.

  And to think that I judge Hyde, with his Miss Whitcomb! I judge his gruesome smiles and rough ways, and yet I write of murder and blood.

  Agony. I am in complete and utter agony, my dear Miss Campbell.

  So much so, that I took it upon myself to ask Miss Whitcomb’s opinion on such matters. I fear that I do not have anyone else to ask, and in the past few weeks she has become a cheerful friend. Again, I fear my social manners are sorely lacking in this area, because last night at the Whitcomb dinner, I was unable to stop myself from blurting out, midconversation, if she could give me any advice on how to properly woo a lady.

  “Good Lord,” Hyde said, his wineglass paused just beyond his lips. “It was obvious something has been troubling you for days, Purefoy. I assumed it was because of Banbury.”

  We had been awarded a second cadaver, the unfortunate Banbury, but I have sworn to not speak of such matters again. Suffice it to say, it was not the source of my troubles. We employed the Steambox once more.

  “No, it was not Banbury,” I said, already hating myself for speaking my thoughts aloud. I do not know what I expected to happen. I had been mentally suffering with this problem, this fear of having ruined everything with you, but had not planned on verbalizing my concern.

  Having everyone’s gazes focused solely upon me was unsettling. Mr. Whitcomb’s face lost the sheen of vapid boredom that so often affects his expression. Hyde appeared irritated. But Miss Whitcomb’s pale face blossomed with color, and she leaned toward me with a warm smile.

  “Are you trying to woo a lady, Mr. Purefoy?” she asked in her breathy, soft voice.

  “His Miss Campbell,” Hyde said with an exaggerated sigh. “He constantly has a quill in hand, writing her. I daresay his fingers are permanently inked, he writes so much.”

  “Campbell?” Mr. Whitcomb interjected. “I believe I know several young ladies named Campbell. I also know a shoemaker—”

  “From the Highlands,” Hyde interrupted. “I believe Purefoy intends for his courtship to be conducted only through letters.”

  “Through letters!” Mr. Whitcomb chortled. “Well, I daresay that is a ridiculous endeavor entirely. Letter writing is all well and good, once the courtship is completed, but you can hardly expect to win a lady’s favor by words alone.”

  “I disagree,” Miss Whitcomb interjected. “Letters are extremely romantic and I think a very good way to court a lady.”

  “Mine have not been so romantic recently,” I admitted.

  “Good Lord,” Hyde said again, his eyes wide. “Surely you have not discussed recent events with your lady!”

  One look at my expression provided the answer. Hyde muttered incoherently beneath his breath and closed his eyes, as if struck by a great exhaustion.

  “I suggest that there are many fine ladies here in Edinburgh to tempt you, my dear Mr. Purefoy,” Mr. Whitcomb said jovially.

  There are not. I have yet to see anyone who holds a candle to your beauty. No one who possesses an inkling of your charm. No one comes close.

  “Best to conduct one’s courtship face-to-face,” Mr. Whitcomb continued blithely. “And you can hardly expect a lady from the Highlands to find a mere letter sufficient. With those big, strapping lads all around? In all likelihood, one has tossed her over his shoulder and has already handfasted her as he carried her into the misty glen!”

  I was already uncomfortable enough with this conversation, but this comment made me enraged. It was all I could do to not launch myself across the table at him, at my host! The idea of your being carried away was even worse than my own fears, and while I knew I was being unreasonable, knew that my anger was completely unfounded, it was still with Herculean effort that I remained in my seat at all.

  “Oh, I think Miss Campbell is hardly the sort to be carried off,” Miss Whitcomb interjected, coming deftly to my rescue. Her smile was beaming, and she softly patted the back of my hand. “If she is corresponding with Mr. Purefoy, then she knows a good man when she sees one.”

  “Or reads one,” Hyde said drily. His eyes were open now, and he was staring at me with unmasked bemusement. “So. You wish to k
now how to properly woo a lady? Let me start by suggesting that you do not mention murder, or blood, or anything mildly revolting.”

  “Nonsense,” Miss Whitcomb said briskly. “If Mr. Purefoy were writing me, then I would most certainly wish to know about murder. Otherwise his letters would seem jaded and false, and what sort of courtship is that? He must at least mention them, or else he is being untruthful about his time here.”

  “I have the feeling that he did more than mention them,” Hyde countered. “And he has not brought a new letter into the office in days. No secret smile. No pathetic attempt at hiding the latest missive. No secretive rereads.”

  I admitted that I had not received a response in two weeks. That I had gotten your fourth letter and package a week ago, but those predated my horrible missives about the murders.

  “The mail is not constant,” Miss Whitcomb said, and I loved her determination.

  “Whereas Miss Campbell is?” Hyde challenged. The sound of Miss Whitcomb’s huff earned his smile. “I think that perhaps Purefoy was a bit too descriptive for even the most stalwart Highland lass.”

  “Balderdash,” Miss Whitcomb said, employing one of Hyde’s favorite terms. Her use of the word made him laugh, but there was no humor for me. I only wanted to excuse myself from the table. Perhaps I could fall in the pathway of a passing carriage. The pain of that mishap would have been nothing compared to my own self-loathing and acute embarrassment at having started such a conversational topic.

  “I would think those letters were compelling,” Mr. Whitcomb said, his sudden support a true surprise. He motioned for our wineglasses to be refilled, and while they were, he settled himself more comfortably into his chair. “How could she deny interest in such letters? It is quite the man who would compose them, especially to the lady of his heart,” he said, pointing his forefinger my way. “Seems to me that a lady would like to know that sort of thing, that sort of unmentionable violence, and the fact that you are willing to tell is—”