The Curious Steambox Affair

by Melissa Macgregor

  “I have noticed, sir,” I said. I took a sip of my freshly poured brandy.

  “Sometimes it becomes necessary for people to take matters into their own hands,” Hamish continued. “That is where we come in.”

  “Vigilantes for hire?” I asked.

  “Investigators.” Hamish sighed, although I could detect a laughing twinkle behind his spectacles. “And normally, Purefoy, investigations are all we do. Only in the most dire of circumstances do we get more personally involved. In most cases it is an extremely dull business, involving much research and painstakingly boring interviews.”

  My mind flashed to a table in a library, covered with weapons. I could see Sully’s smile as he attached another knife to my harness. I thought then of Dog Benge, and his lethal and silent way of walking into a room. I thought of August Smithson, and his ruthless ability to intimidate Detective Drummond.

  It was difficult to imagine anything other than violence. Dull business? Boring interviews? Conducted with a hidden pistol trained on the interviewee?

  “I find it odd that there are so many foreigners in such a Scottish operation,” I said after another fortifying sip of my drink. “An Indian. An Irishman. Several Englishmen.”

  “Scotland is the great equalizer. The land of vast opportunity.” Hamish breathed a smoky exhale. “Consider America, for example. Texas. Everyone is out there, trying to make their fortunes. Every nationality, likely, has a representative either there or even farther west. Scotland is the same, a vast frontier, with very little resistance to new ideas or new structure. Consider yourself. You came here for better opportunities. Better work. It is no different for us.”

  “Who are the Gentlemen?” I asked. “I know that I have met some, but how many are there? I feel as if I am being introduced to a new member every week.”

  “Well, you know me. There is my brother, Gordon. Simon Trantham, my cousin. You met Patrick O’Sullivan. August Smithson. Dog Benge. And the Venetian.”

  “The Venetian?”

  “Do not ask me to say his name,” Hamish intoned with a grin. “I would hate to summon him. It would ruin a perfectly good night, should he decide to materialize.”

  “And all of you . . .” I paused, searching for the best word. “All of you investigate?”

  Hamish laughed softly. “Each of us plays a very important role. I think that the entire organization depends upon every member fulfilling his part. Each of us is assigned to the tasks most suited to our nature. To our very particular skills. It is the only way the Gentlemen can operate so smoothly and with such success. Each member has to work to his own strength, and we have a system that allows that quite well.”

  “What is your particular skill?”

  “Good man, Purefoy,” Hamish said. He leaned back in his chair and regarded me for a long moment as he quietly smoked. “They call me The Sweeper. I am The Cleaning Man.”

  He must have read my confusion in my expression. He graciously continued to speak, as if I had actually made further inquiry.

  “I tidy up the loose ends. I ensure that the final matters are handled to everyone’s satisfaction, once an investigation is complete. I do any follow-up work, usually dull correspondence, that is required. As needed.”

  Dull correspondence! A glance at his cane, propped against the side of his chair, made me decide otherwise. I assumed that beneath his coat, Hamish was armed. Correspondence, indeed!

  It would be a lie to say that I was not intrigued. That I was not curious! And I will not lie to you, E. I had not expected such fascinating responses to my questions. Determined to ask as many as I could without his losing interest entirely, I thought fast.

  “Trantham. What is his role?”

  “My cousin is The Force. He is a senior member of an elite policing division, superior to anyone employed by the station. Simon therefore has a tremendous amount of influence upon all things in that area. That influence comes in incredibly handy, when it comes to investigating crimes.”

  “I see. And August Smithson?”

  “He is The Law. Legal matters, and such intricacies, are his forte.”

  “Patrick O’Sullivan,” I said.

  Hamish smiled. “The Arms. There is no greater weaponry expert than Sully. I challenge anyone to find a weapon of which he does not profess superior handling. Which reminds me. He gave me instructions that you are to begin your training next week. I understand that you are a knife man, Purefoy. Sully says that you are probably dismal with a pistol, but that can be rectified, I am sure.”

  “Your brother?”

  “We call Gordon The King, but that is a derisive title, I assure you.” Hamish laughed. “Gordon is a member of the Chevalier Cabinet, so that means he possesses an influence and power that is without equal. Again, a very handy asset to any investigation.”

  “How does Dog Benge fit into all of this?”

  “Ah, Benge. The wayward Cherokee. We call him The Mystic, for obvious reasons, but sometimes I consider him more The Savage than anything else. The Venetian found him, years ago, and brought him into the fold. I must confess a deep surprise that Benge speaks so highly of you, Purefoy. It is almost as startling as your friendship with my terrible cousin.”

  “He speaks highly of me?”

  “Oh, yes. Benge is why you are here in the first place, although Simon makes a great argument that he met you first. But, still, The Mystic gave you an unheard-of recommendation. Benge never likes anyone,” Hamish said, taking another sip of brandy. “But he likes you. Says you are a Warrior, which apparently means something in his tribe. You reminded me of him tonight, standing up to Ian like that, although Benge would never have used as many words as you did. He just would have pointed toward the garden, but that fearlessness”—Hamish laughed—“it is the same.”

  My mind was suddenly full of all things Mohican. A Cherokee! I was acquainted with a Cherokee! The very name was melodic upon my mind, so very foreign. I promised myself to begin research on the tribe immediately.

  Benge considered me a Warrior? I felt an absurd happiness at the thought, and I struggled to get my concentration centered.

  “And the Venetian? Who is he?”

  “I said not to summon him!” Hamish countered. “Suffice it to say, he is the last resort. Hardly needed or required, and best not spoken of, lest he decide to show his horrible self. You are probably wondering where you fit into all this,” he said, deftly steering my conversation.

  “I assume . . .” I paused, finding myself unwilling to assume anything. Instead, I took a sip of brandy, and then, I blurted, “At one point, I was afraid that I was to be the one to take the blame.”

  “Take the blame?” Hamish arched a brow. “What do you mean?”

  I sighed. “I mean no offense, Mr. MacBean. You must understand that. But at the police station, while covered in the weapons that your friends so generously bestowed upon me, I began to believe that I was the one selected to face the repercussions of their, ah, hobby.”

  “I can see why you would think that,” Hamish said, again his candor surprising me. “You believed that Sully and my cousin outfitted you for battle, only to make it appear as if you were the killer. Let me assure you, Mr. Purefoy, that is not the case at all.”

  “I began to suspect it was not, once they toiled so diligently to free me,” I admitted. “Although I did seriously entertain that theory while arrested.”

  “Anyone would. I certainly would.”

  “But it seemed unlikely that they would free me so readily, if I was to be only their victim. Unless they wished to save me for a future investigation gone wrong, as the innocent to take the fall, but that seems a tad too convoluted, even for me. To exert that sort of power, to free me, and then allow me to be prosecuted for a later accusation? That makes no sense at all.”

  “You are wise,”
Hamish said, nodding his approval.

  “Hardly,” I answered. “But when Mr. Smithson appeared, and informed me that I was to be set free, I assumed that the Gentlemen do not intend to falsely accuse me of anything, or to allow me to be so accused. I am still unsure of what, precisely, they do intend for me, what my role could conceivably be, but—”

  “The Doctor,” Hamish finished for me. “We intend for you to be The Doctor. That entails your being available for any investigation as needed. We will require your medical advice, your input and insights. A physician is an extremely valuable commodity to us, sir, and due to the usually unfortunate crimes we are hired to investigate, we are often in need of such expert opinion. So many times, the entire reasoning for a crime can be discovered simply by how a body is destroyed or injured. Or if one of us is damaged in the course of investigation, it is necessary to have a physician employed.”

  “I am not a physician,” I said, although my heart began to beat loudly against my ribs. Excitement blended with the brandy. Hearing myself referred to as a “physician” was unlike anything I had ever dreamed possible. The Doctor!

  “Oh, you will be. Just study. Learn from my cousin, who is, as I have said, a medical giant. Once you are accredited, we will hire you ourselves. Your wages will be, I think, to your liking. Concentrate now on learning as quickly as you can, and then, thankfully, we can all be free of Ian’s horrible influence!”

  “Why me?” I asked, my mind (I confess) still occupied with such ideas of grandeur! I forced myself back to reality, lest I find myself transformed into a sniveling, delusional Upper Merchant!

  “Why you?” Hamish retorted. “Why do you think?”

  I took a breath, trying to remain rational, to remain grounded. “What characteristics make you think I will be a good candidate? What makes you believe I will even pass the Physician Boards, or make a good physician at all?”

  “You are obviously in possession of a brilliant mind, or else my cousin would never apprentice you. Let me be clear on a few matters, Purefoy. As a member of the Doctoral Council, Ian is allowed only one apprentice throughout his entire career. Only one can be chosen to be trained as physician. And he has selected you, which means that you are extremely intelligent and able to pass with flying colors. My cousin has chosen for you to represent him, so you should be well aware that failure is not an option, when it comes to Ian.”

  “Oh.” I was at an utter loss. The compliment of selection had eluded me. “Oh.”

  “Which brings me to the important matter of your character, sir. We have already spoken of your bravery. Your fearlessness. The Warrior quality. We appreciate all those things, as well as your abject honesty. You are unafraid to voice your opinion. You abhor injustice. You are proud, in a good way. A diligent worker. You do not take on my cousin’s habit of overindulging in spirits, which I fear is slowly going to corrupt the brilliance of his mind, leaving him alone with only The Darkness. You are a quick thinker, capable of making snap decisions that could, conceivably, save your life or the lives of others. You kept the weapons a secret at the station, for example, behaving with the calm stoicism expected of all Gentlemen. You are obviously loyal. You are unafraid of violence, and perfectly capable of it, although you possess clear thinking and reasonableness. And you are a very pleasant conversationalist, and that, sir, might just be your most valuable trait of all.”

  Words failed me. I searched his expression, lest I see any hint of a jest, but his face was grave and serious.

  I was interrupted, thankfully, by the arrival of Hyde and the others. To my relief, the garden had been a huge success. Miss Whitcomb could scarcely contain her excited admiration, her glowing praise. It was decided then that Thursday’s dinner was, in fact, to be held at Hyde’s town house. Gordon MacBean and his wife were pleased to accept the invitation, and the horrible Whitcomb brothers nearly swooned with the thrill of it.

  “Tonight you have halted the crumbling decline of my poor cousin’s courtship,” Hamish murmured to me as coats and wraps were fetched and awarded. “You have done the impossible, forcing Dr. Ian Hyde to advance on his romantic quest. Just think what you will be capable of as a Gentleman, Purefoy!”

  I wish to know, my beloved girl, what you make of the matter. I request your keen insight. Your opinion. As my favorite (and only) confidante, you must give this strange proposition great thought. I cannot and will not assume that I understand everything, but I do know that, when I become a physician, the Merry Gentlemen are intending to offer me a position within their group. You need to tell me what you make of it, your concerns.

  You should be aware that the decision to join, although well in the future, is as much yours as mine. Your happiness, as I have said, is mine own. . . .

  Regards.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  November 6

  New Town

  Dear Miss Campbell,

  My worries are foremost in my mind, with concern to the letter I last posted to you. It occurred to me, deep in the night, well after I had mailed it, that I was perhaps discussing my situation with a bit too much freedom. What if that letter, or even the ones discussing the murders, fell into the wrong hands? What if they were waylaid by an errant postal worker? Delivered to the wrong address?

  These thoughts woke me from an already nightmarish slumber. Once formed within my mind, they were impossible to relinquish. I found myself in a terrible quandary. My complete and absolute desire to inform you of all my daily happenings clashes with the very real dangers I might have brought upon myself. To mention the Gentlemen with such abandon! To write down their details, which could eventually turn damning, should those words fall into the wrong hands! To cause offense by relaying conversations purportedly held within the strictest confidence!

  However, I know my own limits, my own faults. I have become incredibly accustomed to writing you. It is my only pleasure, and I know that no amount of intuitive warning to limit myself in conversation will be heeded by me. I will find it impossible to not write you the truth. But how to deal with the danger, should it be waylaid? What sort of protection could I ensure?

  I went to the Air Station today, and met with a clerk and asked him if there was a higher level of postage to which I could subscribe. Be assured that I did not provide all the details over the nature of my letters, although I did use you as my reasoning. I told him that I was attempting to conduct a courtship, and that I would hate for any of my missives to be intercepted or misplaced. (Which is a true concern. The idea of another receiving what I write to you is abhorrent. My romantic attempts are for your eyes only.)

  The clerk was quick to reassure me that there was, indeed, a higher level of protection that I could purchase (which I did, for both our accounts). He was quite a romantic, recalling fondly his own correspondence with his eventual wife, and his similar concern that someone would abscond with his very private letters. This enhancement of my postal accounts ensures that our letters will be sent first class, and placed within a locked box, which is guarded continuously by an attendant during travel. Allegedly, this means that our letters will arrive much more swiftly than they have. (How I wish I had known before that this enhancement existed! My new wages make it possible to procure it, although in those dark days, waiting to hear from you with regard to the murders, I would have forgone every other expense to have your responses delivered rapidly!)

  As an added enhancement, both of us will now receive notice of when our letters were delivered to their accounting box, at our respective Air Stations. So, that addresses my main concern. I will know when and if you receive my letters. I know this will calm me, to know that my words go directly to you. And if they do not, then I should be informed immediately.

  Which leads me to my second fear, the next unpleasantness that greeted me in the sleepless night. I would like you to consider destroying most of the letters that I write, once yo
u have read them.

  I know that sounds strange, but if you consider the nature of what I am telling you, then you will see my concern. To have described, in detail, what the Gentlemen are? What they do? To have a written record of it?

  I find it troubling that I wrote down what Hamish MacBean obviously considered a private conversation. I did not tell him that I would be writing you. I have no regret that I did write you, and know that, given the same opportunity, I would write again. You are my confidante, and I hope my every future, so I have no doubt that I will inform you of such momentous occurrences when they happen.

  But, if you please, consider burning them in a fireplace. Read my letters, dearest E., but please destroy anything that could later cause us harm.

  I know that is a strange request, especially since these letters are the only form of courtship that I can now offer. My wooing is indeed dismal. I regret that, and I wish that it were possible to speak to you on such matters, face-to-face, and without the worry of being overheard. I would also like to request that you not share the particulars of my letters, with regard to the Gentlemen and their strange business, with anyone. If you have, then that is fine, but I would like you to consider keeping our letters as your business only.

  I wish to speak plainly on this, so there is no misunderstanding. I do not wish to hide my regard for you. My depth of feelings. I am the first to admit it, and do not want you to believe that my concern for your sharing the details of my letters has anything to do with a desire to hide the fact that I am wooing you. I am wooing you. Everything that I say, everything that I do, all that I am toiling toward, is to make a way for us. A life for us.

  In some fables and fairy tales, a man goes out to seek his fortune, so that he might provide for his heart’s desire. You are that desire, and my only hesitation in making that official is that I am determined to create a good life for you first. I have asked you to wait for me, and your agreement to do so made me the happiest man in all of Edinburgh. That letter is one of my favorites of yours, and that parchment is so creased by that particular paragraph, all from my endless rereading of your sweet acquiescence.