The Curious Steambox Affair

by Melissa Macgregor

  I was unwilling to ignore the polite summons, and so I found myself on my way into New Town. The carriage was warm, the horses sleek and fast, and they moved along the snow-dappled street with grace and agility. Staring out the windows, watching as the snow-covered buildings passed, I had the strangest sense that I was in another world. It was easy to imagine I was in Russia, and that this was a troika, and I contented myself with such thoughts until we pulled even with Trantham’s home.

  New Town, as I have said before, is the nicer section of the city. We arrived at an impressive row of townhomes, which reminded me instantly of those in Mayfair. A long wrought-iron fence separated the sweeping front steps from the pavement. Judging by the immense number of carriages jostling for space and pausing for passengers to alight, I knew it to be Trantham’s.

  His townhome was a large structure, located at the end of a row of similarly appointed homes. It was elegantly constructed, made of sleek grey stone and framed by a sliver of neat front lawn. Light spilled out from the windows of every floor, illuminating the front to my curious satisfaction. Short wrought-iron railings outlined the base of each window, and the cornices were ornate and grand.

  As I descended from the carriage, I was informed by the footman that Hyde dwells in the adjoining town house. I was startled, but the truth of the matter is that once again, I had not envisioned Hyde in any other environment than the ones in which I view him regularly. It is ridiculous to admit, and very stupid of me, but until last night, I had never given a thought to where Hyde lived. It is as though I believed he disappeared into thin air every night when he left the office, only to materialize at ten o’clock the next morning. Or his existence is allowed at Whitcomb’s, but beyond that . . .

  I laugh now at my own ridiculousness, but last night, I was startled. Immediately, I turned to look at his town house. It, at first glance, was identical to his brother’s, made of the same elegant stone and possessing identical marble front steps leading to an oversized door.

  At first glance it was the same. The second glance proved different.

  Let me be clear, Miss E., when I say this. Hyde’s home has the same smart iron railings. It is the same height. It has the same number of floors as the Trantham house adjacent. It was obviously constructed by the same designer.

  And yet, not a single window of Hyde’s was illuminated by light. Not one. On closer inspection, it appeared that heavy curtains had been pulled closed, blocking any view of the inside. There was no sense of warm welcome, which was so evident next door.

  But that was not the only difference between Hyde’s house and that of his brother.

  I struggle to explain this properly. I fear that it is something that simply must be viewed by oneself, because I find that words fail me. Throughout the night and over breakfast, I pondered on how best to describe this, how I could possibly convey on paper the oddity that I have witnessed.

  Suffice it to say, it appears as if Hyde has constructed a tower in the middle of his roof. Trantham has not, and neither has the neighbor adjacent on Hyde’s left.

  I blinked a few times, certain my eyes were betraying me. And yet the tower remained, ensconced proudly between the two large banks of chimneys that framed the perimeters of Hyde’s home.

  It appeared to have several levels. It is not made of stone, so it is clearly not an original part of the town house (obviously). It is constructed of whitewashed wood, with dark exposed beams providing the medieval-styled outline. I could see wooden battlements formed at the top, I suppose to provide a widow’s walk of sorts.

  Deeper within, as if protected by the battlements, there was a strange rotund. I could see no windows, not in any of it. Frankly, I could not see enough of the strange tower beyond the lamplight to satisfy my curiosity. The snow falling made it appear even more fantastic, and I stood for many moments, simply gazing at it.

  I was surprised that I had not noticed it as we approached, and I assume it was because I do not spend a great deal of time looking up. I will change that particular habit.

  I laughed then, unable to stop myself. Only Hyde would do something so strange, and I should not have expected anything different. I wondered if the neighbors complained about the atrocity. I could not imagine Hyde caring, or catering to any aesthetical desire of others.

  I could hear the conversations of other guests, as they alighted from their carriages. A butler opened the front door to welcome them, and I could see light and hear music spilling out into the snowy night.

  A man emerged from the Trantham doorway, and seeing me, he called out loudly.

  “Mr. Purefoy!”

  Startled that he knew my name, I watched as he descended the front steps quickly. Rapidly, my mind searched for any memory of him, any introduction. It came back empty, and I quickly scanned him, determined to remember someone who so obviously knew me.

  I did not recognize the face. He was not of the Doctoral Council, nor had I made his acquaintance at either of my boarding houses. He was of average height, of muscular build, but his body was already providing hints of a possible and eventual portliness. His dark muttonchops were pronounced, but they framed a cheerful expression. His gaze was alert and sharp, and he moved with such a sense of power that I intuited at once that, despite the smile, this man was extremely dangerous.

  Perhaps I am spending too much time with Benge, or it was merely a result of my overindulged imagination, but I knew without a doubt that this man approaching was no one to trifle with.

  Keep in mind, I am a good observer. I saw many things in that instant. His smile did not reflect in his dark eyes. His gloved hands were nearly as large as mine own and, in my opinion, appeared perfectly capable of harm. His clothes were impeccably tailored, obviously expensive, but there was something about the way he handled himself that gave the impression that he was not taken with his own vanity.

  This was not an Upper Merchant approaching me, and nor did he seem vapid enough to be titled. I struggled to catalogue him, to place him in my societal hierarchy, but struggled to do so properly. Was he a rich ruffian?

  He reached me, moving beyond the quaintly ornate iron front gate and onto the snowy pavement.

  “Purefoy,” he said again, and I caught the unmistakable trill of an accent. “I have been expecting you. Patrick O’Sullivan,” he said by way of introduction. “I have heard much of you, sir.”

  He looked up, obviously noticing what had so recently captured my attention. When he spotted Hyde’s tower, he gave a great bark of a laugh. “Horrible, eh?” he said. “Trantham nearly took his head off when he built the thing, but it was of no matter to Hyde. I almost like it. It certainly gives some necessary personality to the place. Come in, come in,” he said. “I promise you, we will not bite.”

  He laughed again and ushered me toward the front steps. Hurriedly, I found my voice, determined to not cause offense by my gaping silence.

  “Have we previously met?” I asked.

  “No,” O’Sullivan said. “But you were easy to recognize. Benge told me that you would likely be reticent to enter, and I can hardly blame you. Trantham’s parties are usually such a bore, and tonight is proving no different. Still, it is amazing what becomes bearable, once the champagne starts flowing.”

  It amazed me that he could still spot me out of the crowd of guests descending from carriages, reticent or not. I had not been lingering that long. When I said as much, O’Sullivan laughed again.

  “Truth be told, I have been awaiting you,” he said, as we mounted the front steps. “Smithson was as well, but he became distracted. As always.” Again, the rich laughter. “But you were easy to recognize, Purefoy, just as Benge described. Your expression, sir, is far more animated than most, and your amazement at poor Hyde’s folly was a good indication that I had found who I was looking for.”

  My mind searched for anyone named Smithson, an
yone that I had yet heard of. No one surfaced within my memory.

  We had reached the front door, which was opened once more with great aplomb by a quite severe butler. Instant warmth greeted me, as did an immense light. A large chandelier, lit by flickering gas bulbs, was suspended overhead, and I fought the urge to gape at it.

  There was music as well, loud and resplendent, and coming from an open set of pocket doors. The crowd of the hall was quite a crush, as people tried to make their way into what must be the ballroom. I found a flute of champagne pressed into my hand, and then O’Sullivan was tugging insistently upon my arm.

  “Come on,” he shouted, his voice barely discernible over the din of conversation and orchestral swell. “I have secured the library for our meeting.”

  Secured the library? That sounded ominous, and I very nearly excused myself from the party entirely.

  O’Sullivan must have read my expression (I truly need to master control over my own thoughts) because he laughed again, and gripped my arm tighter. He steered me through the crowd, pausing only to return brief greetings as we made our way through the glittering throng.

  It would be unfair to not include a modicum of description about my surroundings. Simon Trantham’s house was indeed a thing of beauty. The furnishings were mostly of dark wood, and exquisitely made. Credenzas lined the hall, each covered with giant china vases filled expansively with fresh bouquets of flowers. There was a thick Persian carpet covering the floor, and fine artwork hung upon every available wall space. Everywhere there were gas lamps, making me feel as if I had inadvertently stepped into daylight.

  As I was led forward, I was afforded quick views into equally resplendent rooms. I saw several bookshelf-lined parlors, each with a crackling fireplace and overstuffed chairs and sofas. I got a quick look into the ballroom and could see that the parquet floor was a myriad of waltzing couples. Waiters carried large silver trays with a variety of drink offerings. I could see a refreshment table teeming with pastries and cakes.

  And the music!

  It was compelling, and my heart leapt to hear such beauty. I have only heard such music at the few recitals I have attended, and I began to feel as if I would like nothing more than to lean against a pillar and let the majestic sounds envelop me.

  But that would happen later. For now, I found myself half dragged toward the approaching library.

  You can imagine my relief to see Dog Benge appear through the crowd. His sudden smile at seeing me implied that my reticence was evident. He pushed his way to me, and then matched his stride to mine own.

  “I see that you have met Sully,” he said. “He is not as bad as he appears.”

  “What sort of meeting am I attending?” I asked.

  Benge shrugged as if it were an unimportant concern. “Sully always has an unfortunate way with words. He is our weapons expert.”

  “Weapons expert!” I said, a little too loudly. Several people turned to look at me, but were instantly mesmerized by the fearful presence of the Indian. Sully, walking ahead, bestowed upon us a rich glare, and motioned for silence. I took a breath and then said, in a much softer tone, “Weapons expert for whom?”

  “The Gentlemen,” Benge said with another shrug. “Ah. Here we are.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The library was as splendidly appointed as expected.

  Dark wood greeted my eyes as I was led across the threshold. There was a large bank of windows that completely filled the far wall, with rich brocade curtains pulled back. My gaze was inexplicably drawn there, and to my amazement I saw what appeared to be rich green foliage visible through the glass. That seemed amazing, considering the snow, but my attention was shifted as Sully called for the doors to be shut behind us.

  The room was undeniably beautiful, and my literary passions were ignited as I gazed at the imposing bookshelves that lined most of the walls. Book after book was here, a far better selection than even Hay’s offers. A delicate iron ladder was attached to lengthy expanses of pipe, which circumvented the shelves with ease. How easy to reach the upper shelves! How convenient to stand upon the ladder rungs, and glide from shelf to shelf!

  A nice arrangement of comfortable-looking chairs was arranged before a very large fireplace. Another credenza, only this one offered an arrangement of various whiskies and glassware. There was a centermost table on the thick Persian carpet. This table reminded me of those I have seen at museums. I consider them study tables, because they lack the clutter of a man’s desk, and provide ample room to open numerous tomes and arrange papers to one’s liking.

  This table, however, was covered in its entirety by the greatest assortment of weaponry that I have ever glimpsed.

  “I said to keep the door shut,” Sully said, all traces of humor gone from his voice. He glared at a servant. “Do so, and then I wish for a selection of refreshments for our friend. A large selection, mind, and several bottles of champagne. Quickly! Quickly!”

  His smile returned as the servant hurried to comply. The door shuddered closed, and then Sully turned to me.

  “Trantham’s staff is disastrous,” he said. “No use in discussing it with him, though. He does not seem to notice their ineptitude, or does not care. I thought you might like to see some of the weapons,” he said. His smile deepened as he regarded my rapt expression. “They are, indeed, glorious.”

  And they were! I stared down at the pistols. The long swords. There were rifles and muskets! A blunderbuss! And more swords of wide variety!

  I could feel both Sully’s and Benge’s gazes upon me as I took a step forward. The offering was so varied that I was unsure where to start. It was obvious that they were displaying them for me, for whatever odd and mysterious reason, and I knew that they were expecting some sort of reaction. I had the distinct feeling that, should I inquire what that reaction should be, I would not be granted a proper answer.

  Best to have my honest reaction, which is what I expected they were looking for anyway.

  There were so many weapons I did not understand. Some of the pistols possessed firing mechanisms that looked difficult and complex. The swords, too, were unlike any I have ever seen. Some had curved blades. Others had ornate hilts that quietly begged for my touch. I started to reach for one, a cavalry sword, but my attention was captured by the knives.

  Immediately, my heart began pounding, my gaze full. So many of them! There were bejeweled hilts. Vicious blades, some delicately wrought, others with a dangerous curve. You know my passion for knives, and these . . . these were different. Such craftsmanship! Such beauty!

  And then I saw one in particular. It lay in the midst of the gleaming offering in quiet splendor, not as fancy as others, nor as garishly lethal. It was the Indian’s blade, the one I had previously admired in the Operating Theatre. Its simplicity was a far cry from the more extreme daggers and knives that surrounded it, and yet I suddenly had eyes for no other.

  Beside me, Dog Benge laughed softly. I looked up, only to see Sully roll his eyes in dramatic exasperation.

  “Oh, go on and take it,” he said with a long sigh. “Benge was correct. Again.”

  “Take it?” I asked, feeling confused. “Sorry?”

  “The knife,” Sully said. When I hesitated, he picked it up himself, then handed it to me. “It is yours, of course. It always was, but we wanted to see if you remembered it.”

  “It is your knife,” I said, glancing toward Benge. “I admired it in the Theatre.”

  Benge shrugged. “I have two. This is yours.”

  I started to protest, tried to deny the gift, protested the generosity, but my words fell on deaf ears. Benge merely handed me a soft leather scabbard and instructed me to hide the blade in polite society.

  “What else do you require?” Sully asked. “What else is needed to keep you safe?”

  “I . . .” I started to form th
e necessary questions, but was interrupted by the opening of the library door.

  The servant had returned with the ordered refreshments, but it was the sight of Simon Trantham, standing behind him, that centered my attention.

  Trantham was scowling as he walked into the library. He quickly ordered for the servant to set the tray of food and drink down, and then barked for him to leave.

  The look on his face was so similar to Hyde’s that for a moment it was as if Hyde himself was furiously standing in the middle of the library. Save for the spectacles, they could have been the same, but Trantham did not feel the need to berate the poor servant as he hastily set the tray on the surface of another library table. When the servant nervously insisted that he should open the bottle of champagne for us, I winced, expecting rude retribution.

  Instead, Trantham agreed, which meant that he was nothing at all like Hyde. Silence descended upon the library, broken only by the loud pop of champagne cork. Our silence continued until the servant left, shutting the library door firmly behind him.

  “Hello, Simon,” Sully said to Trantham. “I was wondering when you would make an appearance.”

  “A weapons display?” Trantham murmured, approaching the table in quick, efficient steps. “At a party? Hardly wise.”

  “I only wished for Mr. Purefoy to be adequately protected,” Sully answered.

  “You intended to frighten our new friend,” Trantham answered. “Or show off your dubious haul.”

  “Purefoy is obviously not frightened,” Sully retorted. “And he appreciates the haul. Correct, sir?”

  “I have never seen its equal,” I admitted, hoping said fright and concern were not displayed upon my expression. Adequately protected! My heart pounded.

  “And you never will,” Sully said. His grin deepened. “Thank you for the compliment. These are only a fraction of the weaponry I have available. I am glad that you appreciate it as much as I do.”