The Curious Steambox Affair

by Melissa Macgregor

  It was heaven. I was able to implement several surgical procedures, things I have only read about in my texts. This was the opportunity to remove a kidney, to perfect my blade work on such delicate connections. I concentrated on the intestines. I spent much time on the lungs, and inspected the details of the ribcage. The heart was a fascination. I spent long moments inspecting the effect of this man’s hanging, slicing open the rope markings around the neck and seeing the damage against the innermost throat.

  Hyde busied himself with tidying up the Steambox, unhooking its brass tubes. I also kept an eye on him as I continued my study. Previously, I had never paid much attention to his shutting down of the Steambox. Always before there were other tasks to occupy me, other things requiring my consideration.

  I was fascinated to see that he took a glass vial from one of the worktables. Securing it against the end of one of the tubes, he then depressed one of the brass levers. He caught me watching then, and complaining loudly over my infernal and damnable curiosity, he glared until I switched my gaze to the cadaver.

  It never occurred to me that there might be things to empty from within the Steambox. I thought then of the soul residue he had been harvesting. Did such presence linger within the wooden confines of the Box? Did such energies require storage? What happened if they remained in place, were not put into vials? Were they active ingredients, things that retained characteristics of life?

  Why hadn’t I considered any of this sooner?

  I have told you before that I am an excellent observer. I made great show of taking notes, but all the while, I continued to watch Hyde out of the corner of my eye. He appeared to be directing something from within the Steambox into the vial, some smoky vapor, but since I could not stare at it fully, nor ask questions, I was not able to form a very strong opinion as to what it could be. It was definitely something, expelled from the inner chamber of the Steambox, shot through the tube and into the vial. Hyde eased up on the lever and then quickly pulled the vial away from the tube, sticking a cork in its glass top.

  Of course, my imagination soared quite a bit, E. Was this, in fact, evidence of a soul? Some type of remaining power? And if so, how much had he collected? What did he intend to do with it?

  I watched, carefully, as he affixed a small piece of parchment against the side of the vial. He made great show of scribbling on it, but always kept it away from me so that I could not decipher the writing. He then deposited the vial in one of the locking drawers, and I could hear the rattle of others as he slammed it closed.

  And then he sent for a late luncheon.

  Hyde is an odd creature. I have said it several times, and I feel sure that I will say it several more before I am through. Only Hyde could eat corned beef and cabbage in front of an opened cadaver. Only he could pretend deafness when I began my incessant questions.

  I apologize, sweet Eugenia. I have reread the above paragraphs and am dismayed to learn that I have yet again gone into far too much detail with the professional facts of my day. Surely you do not wish to hear the particulars of my cadaver work. I blame only my infernal enthusiasm and assure you that I will try, once more, to keep the conversation on a more pleasant path.

  I did venture out Saturday evening, alongside Dog Benge and, surprisingly, Hamish MacBean, who insisted upon accompanying us both to the strange little restaurant and on to Mr. Stuart’s tavern. I was very pleased to see Hamish again, but Benge was disgruntled that The Sweeper had seen fit to ruin a perfectly pleasant evening by inflicting his presence upon us.

  I was surprised to learn that there is apparently no love lost between Dog Benge and Hamish. I suppose I believed all the Gentlemen to be friends (and surely they would be, considering that they are allegedly in business together). Benge and Hamish proved otherwise, and the evening began with snide comments and barely veiled threats of violence flying this way and that across the restaurant table. I was half convinced that I was at dinner with ill-behaved children, and was grateful only that both Gentlemen remained pleasant with regard to me.

  It was amusing to watch their verbal dueling, and I found myself keeping score of direct hits and such, within my mind. Most of their threats involved half-explained instances from their past. Something about Benge not arriving timely at an investigative scene, which led to great hardship on Hamish’s part. Benge’s response was a gruff and dismissive wave of his hand, murmuring something about it being years ago, and that things turned out better for all, thanks to his tardiness. I started to ask for more detail, but they were off again, this time complaining about an allegedly faulty cleanup, which again was maddeningly void of enough explanation to satisfy my curiosity.

  I was able to grasp, finally, that much of their mutual dislike involved the affections of a lady, but I was not able to ascertain as much as her name, much less the undoubtedly interesting story. Benge merely lit a cigar, shrugging when I questioned him. Hamish arched a brow in response, his smile managing to reveal neither triumph nor despair.

  The mention of the mysterious lady, however, did result in the conversation turning to you. Hamish had learned of your possible visit, and he was curious to know more about you. He asked me if you were beautiful (which I assured him, you possess no equal). He asked how long we had been acquainted, and how we met, and how long we had been corresponding. He was fascinated that you are my previous physician’s daughter. He was keenly interested in your hobbies, and your love of literature, and your enjoyment of music.

  Such blatant curiosity irritated me. I have already admitted a weakness for jealousy, and Saturday evening’s conversation did not prove otherwise. I find that I am possessive where you are concerned, and even the most good-natured curiosity offends me. Especially from the group I have already targeted as potential and unwanted rivals for your affection.

  Something in my expression caused Dog Benge to laugh.

  “Be assured, Purefoy, I will be happy to act as your second, should the need arise,” he said, his gaze centered on Hamish. “The Sweeper does have a tendency to admire what is not his to admire.”

  “I am only being friendly,” Hamish was quick to assure me. “No need to be out of sorts, Cherokee. Do not apply your grudges of the past to any of this.”

  “It would be a shame to see you selected as O’Sullivan’s next target practice,” Benge returned cheerfully. “I am sure that, if offended, Mr. Purefoy would not mind using you as the shooting gallery. I understand that he is almost as good with a pistol as he is with his knives. I anticipate watching that particular session. It might be worth summoning the Venetian, who always enjoys a good show.”

  Hamish snorted, but he had the good grace to change conversational topics.

  We dined leisurely, and as usual, the odd restaurant with its windowed offerings was a culinary pleasure. They offered a delectable apple tart, and I am hoping that, should you visit, we might be able to arrange a dinner there. I think you will like it and find the ever-changing array as interesting as I have.

  The place is clean and cozy, wonderfully located within the hustle and bustle of the closes. I often debate where we should sit, you and I, should you be willing to dine here (and I sincerely hope you are!). A part of me knows the necessity of sitting close to the fire, but I know this restaurant is no colder than the places one frequents in Inverness. Still, I am concerned for your comfort, so a fireplace table might be best. Keep in mind, however, that a table closer to the windows affords a much greater view of the hustle and bustle of the closes. You might prefer such entertainment as that table could provide!

  We went then to the tavern that employs Mr. Stuart. The night was cold but the tavern was close enough to not require our carriage. Again, I was glad to have your scarf, which did much to protect me from the intense chill.

  The tavern is located deeply within Auld Toon, close to my original boarding house. How strange it was to be back, to be among the
once familiar! I had almost forgotten how otherworldly it is here, with the laundry lines strung above. Fresh air is nonexistent, and the twists and turns of the dark offshoots were just as difficult to traverse as ever.

  We walked up carved worn steps, which showed evidence of long years, their middles depressed from generations of use. A quick turn past a chemist shop took us immediately alongside Mitchell Boarding House. I will admit to a quickening of my pulse as I thought of my former home, buried deep! Quickening my pace, I went halfway up another rise, almost to the next street, and found the desired address. Stuart’s tavern was loud and boisterous, full to the brim of merrymakers. I was pleased that there was a large fire, fully stoked, and around it was arranged a large number of rough-hewn tables. Long benches sat on either side of each, and these were occupied by a mixture of Upper Merchants—obviously taking a night off from their lofty social pursuits—and more regular lower-class workers. The air was stale with the scent of spilled ale, and there was a dim golden haze from the crooked candelabras suspended in the beamed ceiling above. Stuart saw us as we entered, and recognizing me, he hailed us forward.

  He was ensconced between two bars, the one in front of him flanked by a row of unoccupied high wooden seats. The bar behind him was framed by a long, oversized mirror and covered entirely by such an offering of brown bottled spirits that I found it an amazing display. There were so many whiskies and rums and bottles of wine, as well as champagne! I was beginning to think we had stumbled into a merchant’s haul, but a glance around at the heavily imbibing crowd assured me that this was no spirit shop.

  Stuart was in possession of a long white apron, which completely covered his lower torso. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to mid-forearm. Across his shoulder he had rested a linen towel, which he used continually to wipe off invisible specks of dust from drinking glasses. It was odd seeing him again, certainly in a different environment than Mitchell Boarding House, and he instructed us to take three of the tall seats in front of him.

  I hope you do not take offense at my describing such a place. I never intend to take you to such a location, but I am aware of your curiosity. It seems acceptable to describe it to you, since Stuart’s tavern is not on my list of things to show you, should you visit.

  I was well aware of the stares we were receiving. The Gentlemen stood out remarkably, both of them obviously not a part of Auld Toon. This was not the sort of place one would find men of their social standing, and the fact that they were here roused a certain amount of attention. The fact that Benge is an Indian caused a reaction, and MacBean’s Chevalier connection was audibly commented on, from table to table.

  I was aware, also, that the Gentlemen themselves appeared perfectly at ease. Gone was the brotherly bickering they had displayed during dinner. Benge’s expression had completely lost all earlier animation, and it was now set in a bored indifference. Hamish was no different, and he settled himself onto the chair with a negligent ease that implied he had been here a hundred times before, and that this evening was no different from any other.

  I could tell, judging by the expressions of those around me (including poor Stuart) that this was not the case. Neither Benge nor Hamish was a regular patron. I was also cognizant of the interest I generated within the crowd.

  I also knew, as the three of us propped identical canes against the side of the bar, that we were quite likely in possession of the greatest amount of weaponry, all hidden beneath our coats. Armed though the other patrons might be (and likely, were), they would be no match for our invisible arsenal.

  I made introductions as I settled myself onto my chair, informing Mr. Stuart that I had brought my friends along, simply for the company. Stuart did not calm much, but he always was quickly adaptable to new situations. More important, he is aware of a moneyed gentleman when he sees one, and so he offered us what had to be his higher-priced whisky. MacBean accepted.

  The procurement of drink and my incessant conversation did soothe Stuart and soon we were speaking as if we were still ensconced beneath the city proper. I learned that Stuart also changed boarding houses soon after the second murder, and he complained about the greater distance he now had to travel to his employment. I asked him if he kept in touch with anyone from Mitchell’s, and he said that he did not, and that he felt as if he could not get out of there quickly enough.

  Stuart spoke of the murders of our subterranean friends, of the horror of those nights. He went into much detail over the condition of their bodies, the atrocity of such mutilations. Such memories clearly agitated him (as they did me), and the subsequent discussion of the other murders about town did little to calm either of us. Stuart had a few flyers tucked beneath the edge of his bar, akin to those I had already seen plastered against the kiosk. The sketches were just as gruesome as before, and when coupled with our own memories of friends so traumatized, they became more alive and true.

  Both MacBean and Benge were kind, commiserating with Stuart on his tragedies. They assured him that people cared about such things, and although they made no mention of the Gentlemen, their calm words did much to soothe my friend’s agitation.

  He became calmer with my companions the longer we spoke, and soon, I learned the reason for his desire to meet. It seemed that a man had come into the tavern a few nights before, taking one of the seats we currently occupied, and inquired if he claimed acquaintance with an Alistair Purefoy. You can imagine my surprise at hearing this, as well as that of my Gentlemen companions. Hamish’s bored expression shifted into alertness. Dog Benge shifted slightly in his seat, leaning closer to the bar.

  Mr. Stuart had told the man that he did know me, that we had been neighbors at Mitchell’s. The man had asked then if I was still lodged there, but Stuart said that I had moved on to MacGregor’s. When the stranger asked if he had spoken to me recently, Stuart very wisely became alarmed and ceased speaking to him entirely.

  Fear filled me, fear and alarm. I struggled to believe this possible. What was the interest in me? Why? Desperately, I forced myself toward calm, determined to discover as much information as possible.

  I asked if he knew the name of this man, but Stuart said that he had not been introduced. He said that it was not someone he recognized, certainly not someone who had claimed residence at Mitchell’s. He described him as thin, but otherwise completely lacking in distinctive feature. Nothing in his face or in his attire stood out as memorable, and even with the passing of just a few days, only the odd questions remained in his mind.

  Stuart said that he had gotten concerned for me, that the strange coincidence had not set well within him. He sees a great many people during the course of his work, and yet for someone to come and ask him, specifically, if he knew my whereabouts, then he felt a cause for alarm.

  Dog Benge said that he had been very wise in contacting me. I think I nearly lost Stuart entirely, shocked as he appeared to be by the fact that the Savage could speak. I remembered his long-ago borrowing of my Mohican novel. He stared at Benge with open fascination, akin to how one behaves before caged animals on display at a zoo. I was afraid that Benge would take offense, and was well aware that his hunting knife was probably within his very easy grasp, and so I hurried to take control of the conversation.

  I asked, again and again, if there was anything at all he could remember about the man. If he was not a common acquaintance from Mitchell’s, then it seemed odd that he would inquire about me at all, or know that I professed friendship to Stuart.

  Mr. Stuart, thankfully, ripped his gaze away from his glazed stare of horror at Benge, and reported, with a regretful sigh, that the only thing else he could tell me about the man was that he drank poor-quality gin and left without settling his bill.

  “His attire,” Hamish said. “Perhaps you remember anything particular. Any detail, no matter how small or unimportant it might seem. Did he wear a hat, for example?”

  “He took it o
ff, when he sat down,” Stuart said, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully, as he obviously searched his memory. “Plain brown hair. But he kept his coat on, and his collar up. His face was unremarkable, and I am afraid that I would not recognize him, should he reappear. For all I know, he is here tonight; that is how bland his features seemed to me.”

  The thought chilled me, and I found myself looking from table to table. Barmaids made their way through the closely set benches, carrying trays overfilled with mugs and pitchers. I saw no face that I recognized, no one from either boarding house or even from the Doctoral Council.

  Everyone I looked at returned my gaze with unabashed curiosity. Hamish finally nudged me and directed me to turn back around.

  “Useless,” he murmured. “There is nothing left here to discover tonight.”

  And so, we bid Mr. Stuart farewell. I thanked him sincerely for his very wise decision to contact me. He nodded and said that he had always considered me a friend, so it seemed the right thing to do.

  “I also am aware of trouble when I see it, Purefoy,” he said. “You cannot work in this line of business without seeing it a mile away. Without feeling it. My only regret is that I can provide no more than a warning, but rest assured, I am available, should you be in need of any assistance.”

  My thoughts were still occupied with this strangeness the next morning, when, to my surprise, Hyde burst into the dining room at breakfast and announced that he and I were going to go on a walk.

  “A walk?” I asked, staring at him as if he had suddenly grown two heads. “Since when do we walk?” I set my coffee cup aside, as well as my unfinished plate of kippers and sausage.

  “Sunday exercise, Purefoy,” Hyde said briskly, his tone making it abundantly clear that my doubts were imbecilic. He was putting on his coat and gloves. “It is good to go outside now and again and get a bit of fresh air into one’s lungs.”