The Curious Steambox Affair (11 page)

“Why would I?” I answered. “Privacy is not something I surrender easily. My life is of no concern to Whitcomb.”

“Good man,” Hyde said, looking satisfied. “But at least Whitcomb can comprehend the idea of friendship. I am not sure Benge can. He is not from here,” he said pointedly.

“Neither am I,” I responded instantly. Hyde laughed.

“If only that were not so obvious,” he muttered, and then we were at the carriage and the impatiently waiting Indian.

We dined at the strange little restaurant with the windows. Benge inspired a myriad of startled looks as he walked into the crowded space, but he appeared completely oblivious to the stares. I must amend my earlier assertion that his hair was not as noticeable with the addition of the hat. It was not as noticeable while seated in a carriage, but beneath the gleaming gas lamps of the restaurant, it was clearly evident that a long, single black braid trailed down the back of his coat. Everyone noticed, particularly with Benge's removal of his hat. A murmur went through the crowd, the noise and interest making me even more exhausted than I already was.

Hyde sighed miserably and called for a table close to the fire. Benge, oblivious to the interest his person generated, sat down, and immediately ordered a bottle of a dark red Bordeaux.

Which did manage to cheer Hyde considerably.

I truly do love this queer little restaurant, set amid the hustle and bustle of the closes. If I had not been here previously, I might have missed it altogether. It is nondescript on the outside, dark grey stone, but the windows are cheerful and kept clean of the constant soot and grime present all around. The variety of foods offered, visible through the small glass windows inset in the wall, changes with great frequency. As I have said before, you drop in a coin or two (into a small slot at the top of each window) and the lock is lifted, allowing the brass knob to be turned and pulled. There is a single plate of your selected item, and I spared a glance through the open window, curious to see how this sort of thing worked. There was a kitchen beyond, full of a bustling staff, which replaced each item taken with a fresh plate. The smells were incredible, as was the heat from the myriad of ovens and stoves.

I would like to say that we engaged in interesting conversation, but we did not. This was only about eating. Only about drinking. Benge called for a large carafe of coffee (drinks are ordered and brought by white-aproned waiters, and have nothing to do with the queer window arrangement), which did wonders to revive me. Other than that, we dined in virtual silence, but it was without rancor. Forgive me for being fanciful, but this silence was what I imagine hardened warriors feel after battle. What is there to say, when one has borne witness to a gruesome end? What sort of pleasantries are appropriate?

And so, here I am. Ensconced in the MacGregor house. The bothy looks inviting across my bed. The sounds of the world outside soothe me.

I wish to hear from you. Want to know the details of your days. Wish beyond anything that I could be near you. That I could hear your voice. See your smile.

For now, I will listen only to the sound of rain falling beyond my window. I will hear the shouts of carriage drivers as they weave their way through the streets. I will feel the steamy, coal-streaked air against my skin, but my mind . . . my mind! It will be with you.

Regards.

Chapter Twelve

October 11

MacGregor Boarding House

Dear Miss Campbell,

It is snowing outside. Beautiful, perfect flakes are drifting beyond my window. I can see them swirling beneath the lamplight of the street, moving and dancing in the wind. It makes me think of you, wondering if it is snowing in your beloved Highlands. I assume that it is, or that it has, and this great curiosity overtakes me. I hate not knowing your details.

I have not heard from you since I received the package, and your letter was dated before I sent on the awful news of both Beatie and Banbury. Since the arrival of the package, I have heard nothing. I hope that I did not offend you with my terrible honesty. I have spent hours worrying about my choice of conversation and wishing desperately that I had not spoken of such matters. The idea of your being insulted, in being traumatized by my sharing of the horrible occurrences, fills me with dread and regret.

Please accept my apology. This great emptiness of the postal account box is driving me mad, and I fear that it is my own poor choice of conversation that has caused it. I can hardly blame you for not wishing to speak to me. What sort of gentleman discusses murder with a lady?

In my defense, I wanted only to be completely truthful with you. I wished to share the details of my life, and in return, hear yours, no matter how troubling or distressing they might be. Now, the great silence has descended upon our correspondence, and I wish only that I had wooed more appropriately.

I feel a great ineptitude in this matter. I have never courted before, and have realized (in the quiet passing of days) that I might not be adept at such things. I think back on my time in the Highlands, and I chastise myself for my poor pursuit of you. I remember the myriad times I lingered in your father's office, determined to catch a glimpse of you. I do not remember any conversation, but surely I could have forced one!

I remember when I waited after church, wanting to see you walk by with your friends. How much easier would it have been if I had called out to you? If I had signed my name to your dance card at the Andrews ceilidh? If I had waltzed with you, and then spoke of the moon and stars and poetry? Surely that would have been better. More appropriate.

These things trouble me greatly, and it is easier to think in hindsight of a hundred thousand things I could have done differently, but I confess, I have a great shyness when it comes to you and am ill-suited to all things pretty and proper.

And to think that I judge Hyde, with his Miss Whitcomb! I judge his gruesome smiles and rough ways, and yet I write of murder and blood.

Agony. I am in complete and utter agony, my dear Miss Campbell.

So much so, that I took it upon myself to ask Miss Whitcomb's opinion on such matters. I fear that I do not have anyone else to ask, and in the past few weeks she has become a cheerful friend. Again, I fear my social manners are sorely lacking in this area, because last night at the Whitcomb dinner, I was unable to stop myself from blurting out, midconversation, if she could give me any advice on how to properly woo a lady.

“Good Lord,” Hyde said, his wineglass paused just beyond his lips. “It was obvious something has been troubling you for days, Purefoy. I assumed it was because of Banbury.”

We had been awarded a second cadaver, the unfortunate Banbury, but I have sworn to not speak of such matters again. Suffice it to say, it was not the source of my troubles. We employed the Steambox once more.

“No, it was not Banbury,” I said, already hating myself for speaking my thoughts aloud. I do not know what I expected to happen. I had been mentally suffering with this problem, this fear of having ruined everything with you, but had not planned on verbalizing my concern.

Having everyone's gazes focused solely upon me was unsettling. Mr. Whitcomb's face lost the sheen of vapid boredom that so often affects his expression. Hyde appeared irritated. But Miss Whitcomb's pale face blossomed with color, and she leaned toward me with a warm smile.

“Are you trying to woo a lady, Mr. Purefoy?” she asked in her breathy, soft voice.

“His Miss Campbell,” Hyde said with an exaggerated sigh. “He constantly has a quill in hand, writing her. I daresay his fingers are permanently inked, he writes so much.”

“Campbell?” Mr. Whitcomb interjected. “I believe I know several young ladies named Campbell. I also know a shoemaker—”

“From the Highlands,” Hyde interrupted. “I believe Purefoy intends for his courtship to be conducted only through letters.”

“Through letters!” Mr. Whitcomb chortled. “Well, I daresay that is a ridiculous endeavor entirely. Letter writing is all well and good, once the courtship is completed, but you can hardly expect to win a lady's favor by words alone.”

“I disagree,” Miss Whitcomb interjected. “Letters are extremely romantic and I think a very good way to court a lady.”

“Mine have not been so romantic recently,” I admitted.

“Good Lord,” Hyde said again, his eyes wide. “Surely you have not discussed recent events with your lady!”

One look at my expression provided the answer. Hyde muttered incoherently beneath his breath and closed his eyes, as if struck by a great exhaustion.

“I suggest that there are many fine ladies here in Edinburgh to tempt you, my dear Mr. Purefoy,” Mr. Whitcomb said jovially.

There are not. I have yet to see anyone who holds a candle to your beauty. No one who possesses an inkling of your charm. No one comes close.

“Best to conduct one's courtship face-to-face,” Mr. Whitcomb continued blithely. “And you can hardly expect a lady from the Highlands to find a mere letter sufficient. With those big, strapping lads all around? In all likelihood, one has tossed her over his shoulder and has already handfasted her as he carried her into the misty glen!”

I was already uncomfortable enough with this conversation, but this comment made me enraged. It was all I could do to not launch myself across the table at him, at my host! The idea of your being carried away was even worse than my own fears, and while I knew I was being unreasonable, knew that my anger was completely unfounded, it was still with Herculean effort that I remained in my seat at all.

“Oh, I think Miss Campbell is hardly the sort to be carried off,” Miss Whitcomb interjected, coming deftly to my rescue. Her smile was beaming, and she softly patted the back of my hand. “If she is corresponding with Mr. Purefoy, then she knows a good man when she sees one.”

“Or reads one,” Hyde said drily. His eyes were open now, and he was staring at me with unmasked bemusement. “So. You wish to know how to properly woo a lady? Let me start by suggesting that you do not mention murder, or blood, or anything mildly revolting.”

“Nonsense,” Miss Whitcomb said briskly. “If Mr. Purefoy were writing me, then I would most certainly wish to know about murder. Otherwise his letters would seem jaded and false, and what sort of courtship is that? He must at least mention them, or else he is being untruthful about his time here.”

“I have the feeling that he did more than mention them,” Hyde countered. “And he has not brought a new letter into the office in days. No secret smile. No pathetic attempt at hiding the latest missive. No secretive rereads.”

I admitted that I had not received a response in two weeks. That I had gotten your fourth letter and package a week ago, but those predated my horrible missives about the murders.

“The mail is not constant,” Miss Whitcomb said, and I loved her determination.

“Whereas Miss Campbell is?” Hyde challenged. The sound of Miss Whitcomb's huff earned his smile. “I think that perhaps Purefoy was a bit too descriptive for even the most stalwart Highland lass.”

“Balderdash,” Miss Whitcomb said, employing one of Hyde's favorite terms. Her use of the word made him laugh, but there was no humor for me. I only wanted to excuse myself from the table. Perhaps I could fall in the pathway of a passing carriage. The pain of that mishap would have been nothing compared to my own self-loathing and acute embarrassment at having started such a conversational topic.

“I would think those letters were compelling,” Mr. Whitcomb said, his sudden support a true surprise. He motioned for our wineglasses to be refilled, and while they were, he settled himself more comfortably into his chair. “How could she deny interest in such letters? It is quite the man who would compose them, especially to the lady of his heart,” he said, pointing his forefinger my way. “Seems to me that a lady would like to know that sort of thing, that sort of unmentionable violence, and the fact that you are willing to tell is—”

“Damned stupid,” Hyde interrupted, but he was smiling. When Miss Whitcomb gasped, he laughed again and then took a deep drink of wine.

“I am of a mind that it is not,” Mr. Whitcomb continued. He shot me an assessing look. “And it just might be brilliant. Your work in Edinburgh has kept you from conducting a proper courtship, and you have managed to make your letters memorable. How could she possibly accept another suitor, when you are writing of a life full of adventure and intrigue? Of murder?”

His own opinion of your current situation had changed so rapidly that my head spun. Could it be possible that you like my letters? That you find them brilliant? Memorable?

Hope springs eternal. In my heart, it was a veritable avalanche.

“I am sure it is just fine, Mr. Purefoy,” Miss Whitcomb said smoothly. She gave my hand another soft pat. “I believe she has written. Even airships are not timely. I feel in my heart that all is well, and you shall be hearing from your lady soon.”

“A gift would not be unwelcome,” Hyde said. “Something pleasant, Purefoy.”

“Gifts are always welcome in a courtship,” Miss Whitcomb replied pertly. Her gaze lingered briefly on Hyde, which caused his terrible grin to reappear. “Let me make a few suggestions to you, Mr. Purefoy, although I will not retract my very firm belief that all is well with your Miss Campbell. A nice book of poetry, perhaps . . .”

“He has her reading enough as it is,” Hyde said. “Surely his tale of murders and mayhem would make even the most romantic poetry acutely boring.”

“You could send her a bottle of wine,” Mr. Whitcomb said. “I have several bottles downstairs that might do the trick.”

“A deep red for blood,” Hyde retorted. “Why not finish with a gleaming set of knives?”

“You are horrible, sir,” Miss Whitcomb chided. Hyde grinned and raised his glass of wine in a jaunty salute.

“No, Mr. Purefoy, I will do better than that,” she said. “Allow me to select the gift. It would be my pleasure.”

I tried to argue that it was unnecessary, tried to convince her that she need not bother. It was all to no avail. Miss Whitcomb might be frail in body, but the iron of her personality is unyielding.

Once a decision is made, she is incapable of being swayed, and so a small box was delivered, this morning, to the Doctoral office and addressed to me.

You will find the selected gift attached to this letter, and although I cannot take credit for its selection, please know that it is sent with every fiber of my esteem. I hope that these chocolate truffles remind you that you are the only sweetness in my life. That if I have caused offense, it was unintentional. If you would be so kind as to continue our correspondence, then I shall endeavor to write within a more acceptable boundary. If you require a more conventional suitor, then please, be assured, I can be him.

It is this sort of behavior, this sort of kindness in the face of her own physical adversity, that has increased my efforts to help find a cure for whatever ails Miss Whitcomb. I asked Hyde, finally, if it was consumption he feared. He said (after a rather lengthy silence) that it was not, but that he was working through every possibility, studying and then eliminating each disease. He intends to find her cure based on a process of elimination, and that if he can master and learn the cures for a myriad of things, he may be able to unlock the secret of what would strengthen Miss Whitcomb.

And I judged him for his lack of romanticism! When, truly, he has dedicated his life's work to her!

I made a decision this morning, and that was to go to whatever lengths I could to offer my assistance. I swallowed my pride and found Mr. Rose in the cloakroom of the Theatre. I told him that I knew that MacDougal had in his possession several medical texts that Hyde and I do not have. I asked if I might be permitted to borrow them, with the assurance that I would return them as swiftly as I could.

Rose's reaction was as drastic as I expected, but I was willing to face his derision for the sake of the very ill Miss Whitcomb. He snidely refused, saying that MacDougal had spent years gathering the books from all across the globe, and that he would never allow someone as vile as a butcher to touch the sacred pages.

I managed to keep my temper in check (which is becoming more and more difficult in these trying days) and very calmly informed him that this was of the utmost importance, and that a lady was in dire need of treatment, and that the secrets of her healing might very well be contained within those pages.

Rose's laughter was as awful as his next words. He informed me that no one, not even a lady, would benefit from those books, as long as it came as a request from a lowly butcher masquerading as a physician's assistant. He loftily informed me that he and MacDougal were under no obligation to her, considering that she was not assigned as their patient, and therefore, she and her so-called ill health was of little concern to him.

Fury, bright and powerful, filled me. I found it almost impossible to not retaliate, but I knew that any hope for Miss Whitcomb relied in my keeping a level head. Instead, I did the impossible. I asked again.

“What? Hyde does not have the entire world at his fingertips? He does not control this? How very sad for Dr. Hyde, to find himself denied something. To not be handed his every wish on a silver platter!”