The Curious Steambox Affair

by Melissa Macgregor

  I can only assume that this is a reaction to what Mr. Rose has already told me. There is an evil thought that I was somehow involved in the murders. Ridiculous and horrible, but I suppose it is within reason to think that it is possible. I claimed acquaintance with the two men, and my physician received their cadavers to study. I told Hyde about the rumor, and he laughed so richly, calling them all “foolish cows,” that I have not given it much further thought.

  And I wish you would not as well. My only distress would be that they cause you upset. They are not worth it, and as I have said previously, they do not fit into the life I am currently toiling to construct.

  I will say that things have gotten better around Hyde, although he is still as acerbic and difficult as always. Are we friends? I smile, and have to say no, although we have settled into a comfortable routine that is beneficial to us both. I still keep up my morning routine at the office, still remain silent unless he initiates conversation. We often take luncheon together, but are so immersed in research that the meal is usually accompanied by a vast number of medical tomes and scribbled parchments.

  The Whitcomb weekly dinner is the only time that can be classified as a social outing, but even then I spend most of my energies conversing with either Miss Whitcomb or Miss MacIntosh. The second Whitcomb brother has returned from France, and he is of equal stout structure as his brother, and is firmly ensconced in the Upper Merchant echelon. He is a round, dour figure, and I think disapproving of Miss Whitcomb’s association with Hyde, but I believe that he is simply too terrified of Hyde to forbid either the acquaintance or the dinners.

  Hyde and I have made terrific headway through MacDougal’s library. My lending system works perfectly, and is made easier by the fact that I linger in the office far longer than either Rose or MacDougal. Hyde and I are voracious in our studying of the various tomes, and Hyde was pleased that I am fluent in both Greek and Latin. I write down so many notes that my hands cramp with pain, but the idea of something being held within these pages, something that could help Miss Whitcomb grow stronger, keeps both Hyde and me going.

  We have worked through the entire first shelf, and have moved on to the other. Hyde has given me a battered thesaurus to use as a second decoy, so we are currently borrowing two texts at a time. At first, Hyde was convinced that I was incapable of taking good enough notes, and insisted that he go over my text himself. As usual, I ignored his caustic insult, which ended abruptly when he saw my research notes, and read the Latin and the Greek I had transcribed.

  I had passed yet another test for Hyde. We now work on two separate texts. Today, he amazed me by having me read over his notes, to see if there was anything else I would like to add. Needless to say, I was stunned, and I was not stupid enough to actually add anything, lest I cause offense.

  We have moved well on from consumption and are working our way through various fevers. I have managed to get a little more information out of Hyde with regard to Miss Whitcomb’s ailments. It seems she was born with a weak constitution, and a weak heart, and this condition has been made even more fragile with the progression of years. Hyde says she suffers from an overwhelming fatigue, and at times a complete loss of appetite. In the past she has sometimes been too ill to attend the Thursday dinners, or has required aid down the stairs.

  I have witnessed an occasional loss of concentration during conversation. It is as if her mouth cannot keep up with her mind, or she is simply too exhausted to form words. These times frustrate her no end, which causes a deep flush to stain her skin and serves only to further weaken her. At these times, Hyde is always ready, without hesitation, to continue the conversation, taking it over and steering it into another, giving her an opportunity to calm and recover her strength.

  Hyde admits that her condition is a mystery, fitting into no known pattern. There are plenty of fatiguing illnesses, but none that fits her ailments precisely. He has theories he is currently working on, several ideas of a strengthening diet and such, but as yet he has not settled on anything concretely.

  Most of our time is spent in this occupation, this search, which is beginning to feel dire. Miss Whitcomb is growing more and more exhausted as I watch. She no longer leaves the house, sending Miss MacIntosh out and about on her various errands. Miss MacIntosh confided to me that even the simplest tasks exhaust the poor lady . . . things such as sitting while her hair is braided result in an immense fatigue.

  I have not yet finished Mohicans, nor am I as deeply into it as I might wish to be. The search for Miss Whitcomb’s cure is all-consuming, and to make matters even more busy, Hyde has seen fit to give me additional assignments. I am to read and study several tomes of Anatomy, as well as one of General Surgery. I was surprised to see the books sitting and waiting for me one morning on my worktable. Hyde’s written instructions were as terse and confusing as always.

  “Purefoy. Read and learn all of this. As quickly as possible. Know it as well as you know your own name.”

  And so, all of my free time when not avidly studying MacDougal’s pilfered tomes is spent studying the pages of the Anatomy books. Believe me when I assure you that it is very dry reading, containing none of the verdant pleasure of Cooper’s novel.

  Hyde also bestowed upon me, just as mysteriously and without explanation, an entire trunk full of journals. Hyde’s handwriting was unmistakable, and I realized then that he intended for me to read and learn his physician notes as well.

  At first, I assumed that he intended for me to ascertain if he had missed anything in his past, any clue that might aid the recovery of Miss Whitcomb. But as I began to read, it occurred to me that Hyde has another purpose entirely.

  Does he intend to train me as a physician? Can that be possible?

  I believe that is what he is doing, but I also know better than to make inquiry. Not only would I risk his changing his mind, but I might learn that he only wishes me to keep myself occupied. Hyde is that difficult, but his lack of explanation, I believe, means a very great deal.

  These texts and journals, coupled with those that your father sent, are as precious to me as gold. To be admitted as a physician in Edinburgh, I must be apprenticed and trained by one of their members of Council. And then, if my physician bestows a letter of recommendation, I will be allowed to sit for a qualifying exam. That exam, should I be lucky enough to be allowed to take it, centers on two subjects. Anatomy. General Surgery.

  If I pass, then I am granted license as a physician.

  Which leads me back to the plan I have concocted. What I am working toward. You can understand now why I care little what my fellows think of me. I pay no attention to their disregard, to their dark and groundless gossip. To have a chance to be a physician means a chance at a different life. I have certainly always wished it, and yet until I came to the city, it was an impossible thought.

  To become a physician, to be allowed to take the Boards, requires years of petition to the Crown. Long, fruitless years. It is difficult enough to find a physician willing to train an apprentice fully; most prefer to keep them on indefinitely as skilled workers. Your father was interested in my training and would have petitioned for my exam, but his ill health disallowed his continued instruction. His encouragement in sending on his books and tools implies a continuation of that much-needed support, and also provides necessary instruments in that pursuit.

  Does Hyde intend to train me? Anatomy and General Surgery are the normal texts. They have nothing to do with the ailments we are studying. Dare I have hope? Does his power with the Crown extend this far? Can he arrange an examination on whim?

  And so, I am spending my time reading and learning as much as I can.

  I am very glad that you have started Cooper’s novel, and would assure you that, yes, Mr. Benge does indeed fit that landscape very accurately. I have seen him several more times. At first, I was consumed with both curiosity and then concern at his reappearan
ce, but he seemed uninterested in observing or investigating me again. We spoke first of other matters. He shares my obsession with literature, and so we often see each other at Hay’s Bookshop. He usually suggests the restaurant with the little windows, and I am only too happy to accompany him there.

  It was on one of our walks to the restaurant that I first noticed the adverts.

  I realize now that I have yet to describe the kiosks, but let me assure you, they are located in several places in this part of the city. It is impossible to avoid them, while steering one’s way through the treacherously winding closes. You would think that in such tight spaces, amid such precipitous stair steps, kiosks such as these would not be arranged, but they are and can be a source of much dismay when these narrow passageways are at their most crowded.

  Most are located at the top of the steps, but a few can be found at what I consider the crossroads of the various winding alleyways, making yet another obstacle for the pedestrian to traverse. I search my memory for anything similar in Inverness, and cannot recall. There were many in London, and as I have said, more than one here. Kiosks are round wooden structures with domed tops. Paper adverts or flyers are tacked or pasted against each side, often overlapping each other. The flyers are rarely removed, and so it often appears as if years of announcements are arranged higgledy-piggledy upon one another.

  Shopkeepers utilize them to announce new items for sale, things such as chocolates or pastries. A milliner might advertise a new hat, complete with sketch and price. This is often the place where employment opportunities are announced, washerwomen needed and suchlike. Strange home remedies, no doubt containing eye of newt and other such atrocities, herald their alleged healing properties. I often laugh at some of their claims as I pass.

  Other than my daily annoyance of finding myself pressed against the things, due to the immensity of the crowd, the kiosks hold little importance to me, hence my failure to describe one to you until now is not remarkable. This visit, however, when pressed against it, my eye lit upon a police bulletin, posted next to an advert from the steam mill.

  The sketch caught my attention first, the brutality of it so startling me that I stopped in my tracks. I was scarcely aware that Dog Benge had paused as well, so lost was I in the horror of what was depicted.

  The drawing was of a man, but (forgive me!) it was a headless man. The rest of the body had been discovered in one of the closes nearby. According to police, there had been no witnesses to the murder, no one possessed any detail of what had happened to the man (other than the obvious), or who he was. Apparently, it was as if one moment the steps were clear, the next revealed him.

  Now that the kiosk had my attention, I noticed more and more bulletins hidden amid the usual advertisements. I saw warnings posting dire consequences for the recent spate of grave robberies. A sailor was found mutilated in Leith. Another man had been stabbed to death, and police were searching for the missing torso. Torso! Such an intimate word, and to so cavalierly announce its loss was surely abnormal!

  What illness was this, what terrible city would host such horrors?

  “Mr. Purefoy,” Dog Benge said quietly. “You need not concern yourself.”

  “Need not concern myself?” I repeated. “How can I not?”

  Benge smiled and motioned me away from the now odious kiosk. “Please be assured that we are actively investigating these horrors. We do not wish you to be worried over matters that are not within your control.”

  We. Again, the mysterious Gentlemen. The implication of the group’s involvement made the questions bubble up once more within my mind.

  “I can hardly cease worrying,” I said as we resumed our trek to the restaurant. “What sort of place is Edinburgh?”

  “Edinburgh is no different from London,” Benge said easily. “Large cities have their difficulties, their intrigues. Your only task, Mr. Purefoy, is to be wary. Be watchful.”

  And like Hyde, he ignored my ensuing barrage of questions, my attempts to learn more!

  He has yet to mention the murders of my friends again, and seems completely uninterested in any conversation pertaining to either Beatie or Banbury. I have taken Hyde’s suggestion to heart, and have kept my personal details omitted from our talks, and have not yet broached the subjects that most interest me, such as the name of his tribe, or details about what, precisely, brings an Indian to Edinburgh.

  He is a pleasant dining companion, prone to affable silence. I find him a nice departure from my time spent alongside Hyde. He often seems as weary as I feel, and he apparently enjoys the long expanses of silence as much as I do.

  Benge was very interested in my immersion in the medical tomes, inquiring politely if I intended to become a full-fledged physician. I admitted the truth, that it was my desire, but that I was not making a grand statement of intent, lest it somehow jinx itself. That made him laugh, and he was appreciative of my very superstitious nature, as well as my unspoken but obvious hesitation to believe anything associated with Hyde.

  “Things have a way of working themselves out, Mr. Purefoy,” he said. “I suggest you keep on reading.”

  He also delivered to me an invitation to a ball at Mr. Trantham’s house. I was startled by it, but Benge insisted that it was not so much an invitation to attend as a command. My alarm made him smile, and he informed me that Trantham’s parties were never as bad as expected, and that I could expect champagne and good food and even better company.

  The ball is this coming Saturday evening. When I mentioned it to Hyde, I was further startled by his insistence that I needed to be present. I had been expecting his agreement that it was unnecessary, and had been depending on his assurances that I would not be required to go, but Hyde said that if he had to be there (which he does) then I certainly did as well.

  And so, I find myself with a rare social engagement. I wish that I could say I am anticipating it, but I am not. I am tired from the tumultuous weeks I have endured. I am exhausted from too much reading, so much studying. I would like nothing more than to remain here, to spend a few hours doing nothing but staring out at the window and passing scenery beyond. But, unfortunately, that is not meant to be.

  I shall endeavor to pay attention to my surroundings, and hope that I will be able to describe it accurately to you. How I wish you were here! I could claim that long-lost and much desired waltz.

  Regards.

  Chapter Fourteen

  October 21

  MacGregor Boarding House

  Dear Miss Campbell,

  It is morning, Sunday morning, and I have just finished my breakfast. I had thought about going into the office early, since there is a tremendous amount that I would like to accomplish, but I find myself moving languidly, and I possess little impulse to behave otherwise.

  I have decided instead to indulge myself with writing you. No need to hurry into an office and a stack of work, which will wait for me regardless. Hyde will not be in today, so it is not as if he will be sitting behind his desk, glowering at my tardiness. No one will be the wiser if I go there in the late afternoon or even the evening. No one will know the difference but me, and the number of things I must read, must study, must transcribe, are all waiting upon my whim.

  And so I think it best if I write you. My window is open and I can hear the streets. It was snowing again last night, and what remains upon the pavement is now colored by grime and soot. But last night it was magical, and not even the steam and coal of Edinburgh was enough to hide the whirling splendor of the falling flakes.

  I am grateful that this will be a pleasant letter, and I find that I have much to tell you. Last night was the Trantham ball, and although I had great trepidation in attending, I am very pleased this morning that I did so. I think that it helped that it snowed. You might have noticed my affinity for it, and I never see snow without enjoying a sense of wonderment, even on evening
s that call for the darkest moods.

  I have been amazed that even a city this close and cramped cannot block the majesty of a snowfall. In many ways, Edinburgh provides a stunning backdrop to the flakes, the medieval buildings given a fairy-tale dusting, and the castle atop the mountain, white and resplendent, is truly a sight to see.

  You can imagine my irritation when the snow began last night. To be in possession of a window, and not be allowed the luxury of staying in? I was horrified that I had a rare engagement, an “order” to attend a party. How much I would have liked to sit and do nothing for hours other than stare out the window at the falling snow! What sort of contrived entertainment could possibly compare with that?

  But Dog Benge had sent a carriage, and it was waiting impatiently on the street below. His intuitiveness of my moods is beginning to worry me. I had not been expecting transportation, and in fact had been miserably debating the benefits of either walking or taking the funicular once more. I dreaded stepping foot on the contraption again, especially with the snow, and the long walk to Trantham’s town house, located in New Town, held little appeal.

  So, I was glad for the unexpected carriage, although I had the distinct impression that Benge had not sent it so much for my comfort but as to ensure that I truly did accept his invitation. He must have known that I would linger, that I would try to devise an excuse not to attend. How he would know remains a mystery, but I am convinced he is aware of things on a metaphysical level. Either he is the most intelligent man of my acquaintance, or else he possesses an awareness that defies all modern logic. Both ideas trouble me.