The Curious Steambox Affair

by Melissa Macgregor

  “This is Gentlemen business,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “None of us are accountable to the others for our various skills. No fee will be required or accepted. Now then,” he said, sitting forward suddenly. His expression lost all humor. “I cannot stress enough to you, Mr. Purefoy, that you are to trust me in all matters. You are to say nothing. Not one word, unless I directly ask you a specific question. You speak to no policeman, answer no question. Am I understood?”

  “Yes,” I said, after a lengthy silence. “But if you are truly my solicitor, I should like very much to know what is going on.”

  “All in due time, Purefoy,” he said, rising from the chair as the door was once again opened. When I started to rise as well, he shook his head and motioned for me to remain seated. His gaze turned hard as he murmured, “Abject silence, sir. You are to argue with nothing that I say.”

  I could not deny that I was strengthened by the presence of Smithson as Drummond walked through the doorway. I was amazed to see his reaction to the solicitor’s being there. Drummond’s expression would have amused me on any other day. The quick succession of surprise, then loathing, followed by an uneasy desperation would have been entertaining to observe, should I not have been in such dire straits.

  “Drummond,” Smithson called out in bright cheerfulness. “How marvelous to see you again. What a poor decision you have made in arresting Mr. Purefoy.”

  Drummond’s gaze narrowed as he motioned for the door to be shut behind him. “I have my reasons,” he said, color beginning to stain his vein-speckled cheeks. “And not even you can cast doubt upon them.”

  “Care to make a wager?” Smithson returned.

  Drummond’s response was sickeningly awesome to witness. Pain, acute and raw, raced across his jowly face. I knew instantly that there had been previous wagers, and that they had not turned out well for Detective Drummond.

  Hope flickered to life within me.

  “I suggest that you explain yourself, Detective,” Smithson said into the heavy silence. “Perhaps you should tell me why you have seen fit to arrest an innocent man.”

  “Innocent?” Drummond stormed farther into the room, moving so that the table was between us. “I have circumstantial evidence that links Mr. Purefoy to three vicious murders.”

  Circumstantial evidence! My heart stilled in my chest, and it was all I could do to not shout. What had been found? Immediately, I thought of my butchering knives.

  “Do you?” Smithson replied coolly. “And what would that be, pray tell?”

  “Mr. Purefoy was known acquaintance to all three victims.”

  Smithson snorted derisively. “So, you mean to tell me that my client has been arrested for being friends with the victims?”

  “He claims residence at both murder scenes.”

  “An unfortunate coincidence,” Smithson said. He sat down in the vacated chair. Again, I was struck by his cheerfulness, by his sense of enjoying himself immensely. He grinned at Drummond. “Please. Tell me more.”

  “He is a butcher, so he has the skills necessary to the murders.”

  “He is a physician’s assistant,” Smithson countered. “His father is a butcher. Do you mean that you arrested my client based on the occupation of his father? His father who resides in London?”

  “He is an illegal citizen. We have reason to believe that he crossed the militarized borders without permission from the Crown—”

  “You are grasping at straws, Drummond,” Smithson interrupted. “Mr. Purefoy is officially hired by the Edinburgh Doctoral Council. He works alongside the illustrious Dr. Hyde as his assistant. I have the papers that prove he is gainfully employed, so the illegal citizenry tactic is a bit much. Even for you.” He laughed again. “And these are not considered questions with regard to circumstantial evidence. Have you found a single item at any of the crime scenes that belongs to my client?”

  “We only need the accounting of where he was on each night in question,” Drummond snapped. “We have the right to know where he was when the murders were allegedly performed.”

  “I am in possession of those answers,” Smithson countered. “The night of Mr. Beatie’s demise, my client was present at a dinner at the home of Michael Whitcomb. I have several witnesses prepared to give statements attesting to that fact.”

  “We wish to know where Mr. Purefoy went after that dinner,” Drummond said, his cheeks somehow reddening in color. “Where he ate dinner hardly matters. It is what happened next.”

  “Mr. Purefoy actually spent that evening as guest of Mr. Simon Trantham, who is prepared to testify that Purefoy sat up, late into the night, studying various medical texts in his library.”

  What? I was stunned, Miss Eugenia. I have never been Trantham’s guest, save for those few moments during his ball I spent ensconced in his library before I joined Hyde in his garden.

  Smithson continued. “It was such a late hour that Mr. Trantham insisted that a room be readied for Mr. Purefoy, who did not return to the Mitchell Boarding House until after a very late breakfast at the Trantham townhome. In attendance at that breakfast were Mr. Patrick O’Sullivan and Mr. Trantham, as well as numerous servants and staff. All of them will vouch that Mr. Purefoy did not leave the town house confines until that morning. When Mr. Purefoy returned to the Mitchell house, he made the grisly discovery of Mr. Beatie’s remains and if I remember correctly, he called for the police to be summoned.”

  The lie fell so easily from Smithson’s lips. The alibi was so smooth, so shocking that I struggled to mask my expression.

  I repeat . . . I did not stay in the guest room of Trantham’s house! I have never perused his library for anything other than weaponry!

  “Simon Trantham?” All the blood left Drummond’s face, and I watched in terrible amazement as his hands began to quiver. “What the devil is Trantham doing involved with this?”

  “This arrest of yours has offended him,” Smithson said. His voice was laced with soft menace. “I spoke to him just before I arrived. I believe he is on his way here, to deal with your ineptitude with alacrity. He has an appointment with your superior. And that leaves us with Mr. Gordon MacBean, who is . . .” Smithson made great show of extracting a small gold pocket watch from inside his waistcoat. “Well, he should have arrived at the Courts by now. You do know Mr. MacBean, I believe, sir.”

  My mind searched rapidly for any memory of the name MacBean. Involved with the Courts? I profess no acquaintance, and assumed he must be another member of the Gentlemen.

  “The Chevaliers have nothing to do with this,” Drummond spluttered, hands worrying furiously against the table. “This is a police procedure and it is our concern, not theirs.”

  “I think you might want to pause and think before speaking,” Smithson said easily. He replaced the pocket watch. “Surely you are not suggesting that a murder case, that several murder cases, actually, are not important enough for the Crown to be involved. How about the subsequent arrest and false imprisonment of an innocent man? I think the Crown might feel it is a concern that interests them very much. Now, would you like to hear the location of my client the night of murder two?”

  I stared at Drummond, who appeared to be suffering from an apoplectic fit. His eyes bulged. His lips quivered. A flush the color of red wine crept across him, shading his expansive neck and reaching the top of his forehead. His fingers dug into the tabletop, his arms shaking with scarcely controlled violence.

  “No,” he said finally, his voice lethal and cold. “I believe I would not care to hear that.”

  “Any other unsolved mysteries or crimes you wish to accuse my client of having been involved with? Creeping around dark cemeteries perhaps, shovel in hand? An odd decapitation, here and there? Would you care to discuss how, precisely, you intend to proceed, Detective?”

  Drummond’s answering silence was
deafening.

  “Then I suggest that you release Mr. Purefoy at once,” Smithson said. “Considering that you have kept an innocent locked in here for hours, without so much as food or drink, I think that would be an appropriate choice.”

  “I reserve the right to meet with Mr. Purefoy again, should there be any more questions that surface,” Drummond managed.

  Smithson stared at him for a long moment, so long that it caused my panic to return. And then he laughed.

  “Well,” he said as he rose to his feet. “It will be interesting to see if your replacement will wish for that right. Come, Mr. Purefoy,” Smithson said, motioning for me to stand. “I think it is time to leave.”

  “You tell Simon Trantham,” Drummond shouted, obviously losing what little grip he had retained upon his temper. “You tell him that this is of no concern to him! How dare he threaten me! This is not his case! It is mine! This is my work and neither you, nor Trantham, nor any of your horrible friends can wield the power to dismiss me!”

  “Word of advice, Mr. Drummond,” Smithson said, his smile remaining pleasant. “You should begin packing your belongings tonight. Just a thought. Come, Purefoy.”

  I was struggling to stand, having sat still for so long. I was relieved to know that it had been for hours. It certainly felt that way, and managing to stand upright while keeping the cloak close took a bit of work. With great aplomb, Smithson grasped my arm, and then glared at Drummond.

  “You should hope we do not take more offense than we have,” Smithson said quietly. “It would be a shame if you suffered half as much as my client this terrible morning.”

  “What makes you so certain of his innocence?” Drummond shouted, the words reverberating through the small room.

  Smithson’s placid smile remained in place as he regarded the furious detective. “I know him to be innocent, because I have witnesses that vouch for his impeccable character. They give description of where he was on those horrible nights and mornings. Many, many witnesses, Drummond. I fear you have greatly embarrassed yourself.” He laughed. “Poor, poor you.”

  Smithson took my arm, guiding me through the doorway and out into the station. Dismay and shock was palpable. Everyone stared. Everyone watched. I could hear snippets of conversation, mutterings of upset. Smithson ignored all of them.

  Dog Benge’s carriage was lingering alongside the pavement. I nearly shouted with relief to see it.

  Benge smiled as the two of us climbed in. “Fifteen minutes,” the Indian intoned, gaze settled firmly upon Smithson. “It took you fifteen minutes.”

  “Ten,” Smithson replied calmly. “Which means that you should pay up, Benge.”

  I felt overwhelmed as the carriage blended into traffic. The familiar sights through the window were strange now, my mind still occupied with the terrors of the morning. I took a deep breath, paying scant attention to the argumentative banter of my compatriots, and did my best to gather my scattered, terrified thoughts.

  “All of them,” Smithson said, his voice so laced with admiration that I snapped back to attention. “Purefoy, the man without fear, wore all of his weapons while arrested.”

  “I told you,” Benge said, giving me a respectful nod. “He is an asset.”

  “Agreed.” Smithson looked at me, head cocked to the side, his gaze regarding my profile. “I think that even the Venetian would be impressed with such bravado.”

  “You lied for me,” I said, struggling to remain calm. “All of you lied for me. Why?”

  “It is what we do,” Benge said with a shrug. “We have all been in scrapes from time to time, Purefoy. The benefit of having friends is always having an alibi, when required.”

  “But what makes you so sure that I am innocent?” I asked, wishing violently that I had not spoken the words aloud. The horror of what I was implying made me shudder, and yet I could not stop myself from asking. “What makes you believe I am not the murderer?”

  Benge laughed. “Are you?”

  “Of course I am not!” I cried, a renewed fear churning through me. “I have never murdered a man in my life! I never would, and the idea of anyone thinking that is—”

  “Then you are innocent,” Benge interrupted. He smiled at Smithson. “His expressions, truly, are remarkable.”

  “His honesty is remarkable,” Smithson said with a sigh. “We will have to work on that, Benge. Mr. Purefoy, please, let me assure you that it is glaringly obvious that you are innocent. Cease the righteous indignation, please.”

  “And even if you were not innocent . . .” Benge smiled in response to my sharp cry of protest. “Well. As I said, we have all been in our scrapes from time to time. Best if you cease worrying, Purefoy. All is well. You are among friends.”

  Miss Eugenia, you must know that my mind was racing a hundred miles a minute. There were simply too many questions to ask, too many things I did not understand. I was also exhausted and depleted from fright and terror. I realized that I was ravenously hungry.

  “I hope you do not mind, but we have taken it upon ourselves to secure you better lodging,” Smithson said. “All of your belongings have been fetched, Purefoy, so you need not bother with the MacGregors any longer. Ah, here we are,” he said, drawing my attention to the carriage window. I saw that we were shuddering to a halt.

  We were outside Hyde’s town house. I could see him waiting impatiently on the front steps, looking ferociously cross and glaring toward our carriage. He was shouting something as the footman descended, but we were unable to understand the nature of his words.

  “I am unsure if this is considered better lodging,” Smithson murmured. “But Hyde insisted that you be moved here. If it gets too bad, which it probably will, knowing Hyde, then Trantham says that you are to move into one of his guest rooms.”

  I was rendered speechless by their generosity. The enormity of it was overwhelming, and I very nearly collapsed beneath the weight of it. Far too many emotions had coursed through me. This morning, I had lost everything, and to have it so easily restored . . .

  “Good Lord, Purefoy,” Hyde bellowed as the three of us alighted from the carriage. “It took you long enough! There are stacks of work to go through. Texts to translate. This little excursion of yours has set us back quite substantially.”

  “Thank you,” I said simply, looking at Smithson and Benge and finally, Hyde. “Thank you so very much for saving me.”

  And so I find myself quite comfortably situated, Miss Eugenia. I am writing you from the splendid comforts of my own suite of rooms, located on the second floor of the town house. Not only have I been given a bedchamber, but I have my own sitting room as well. My desk is arranged before a large window that looks down upon that queer jungle garden. As I write, I am immensely comforted by the view.

  There is a fireplace, stoked into a near bonfire. The furnishings are magnificent, large and finely carved. I have several chairs at my command, as well as a nice selection of books. I have been fed like a king, and Hyde ordered that tea be sent up to my suite, so that I might have sustenance while I write you.

  Such a far cry from this morning.

  I must apologize for the nature of this letter. Looking at it now, I am horrified by its abject sensationalism. In many ways, I fear that I should journal my thoughts instead of heralding them to you with such wild abandon. Forgive me, sweet Miss E., but be assured that I am well and safe and it appears as if everything in my world has righted itself. That is what I should have begun this letter with, assurances that I am fine, despite the terrible tale I had to confess.

  There is simply no room to add that sentiment to the beginning of this letter, so I will hope you see the words I have scribbled beneath your address, telling you that all is well.

  In spite of the myriad warnings I have received, Hyde has proven to be an excellent host. I spent most of supper informing both hi
m and Trantham of the details of my morning. I was then ushered to this suite, with strict instructions to rest and to resume my duties at the office tomorrow.

  My belongings are here. All of your letters have been placed back in my writing cabinet. The bothy is spread across my bed. And my butchering knives are here. Once Hyde alerted his brother of my arrest, he went immediately to the office and took anything he thought might cause me difficulty, should the police search there.

  Hyde was indeed a friend to me today. Without his interference, his quick action, I know that I would still be in that horrible station.

  And to think of the miserable hours I spent, desperate and alone and fearing the worst!

  I am exhausted, and so am finishing the letter. I have yet to explore my new dwelling, but I plan on doing so soon. I will describe the rooms (and hopefully, the strange tower) to you as soon as possible.

  I miss you, more than you probably realize.

  Regards.

  Chapter Eighteen

  October 24

  Desk overlooking Hyde’s garden

  Dear Miss Campbell,

  It has been yet another extraordinary day.

  I feel I should begin this letter better than the previous. Please be assured that I am well. I am safe. Hyde’s accommodations are far superior to either boarding house, and the night passed uneventfully. I admit that I slept better than I have since my arrival to the city, the combination of warmth and good food having helped put me at ease. I awoke early, having no idea of my location, and it took me a very great while to realize that I was now in residence at Hyde’s town house.

  This luxury is unlike anything I have ever known. Hyde’s home is as splendidly appointed as his brother’s, and although I have yet to truly explore, I have been impressed with his aesthetic taste. Once I was convinced that I was indeed far from the horrors of yesterday, I decided to begin my day as if it was any other. I dressed quickly (forgoing the weaponry holster; I am unsure when I will be willing to wear it again). I managed to find my way downstairs, to find a sumptuous breakfast awaiting me. I ate more than I probably should have, and was then informed that a carriage was available to take me to the office.