The Curious Steambox Affair (21 page)

“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 you 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.

So, believe me, darling E., I only wish that my letters be destroyed so that there is no way our conversation can be tracked, with regard to the Merry Gentlemen. If I break their confidences with me, to write you, then I would like there to be no record of it. Such a letter could result in my own harm, should it be discovered. If there is no proof that my beloved knows their details, then I will feel more comfortable speaking freely. And if we do not discuss these matters with others, then all the better!

These Gentlemen have done much for me here. They have protected and saved me of their own accord, utilizing their power and skill to help a mere butcher. Such a debt I have to them, and to so betray their confidence sits ill with me. In many ways, these new friendships make me feel less alone in this dangerous city. Their assurances that they are investigating these terrible murders help calm my lingering fears, and while I do not profess to know their every detail (or really much at all), I am convinced that their support is true. I feel as if a debt of privacy is owed to those who have exhibited nothing but concern for my safety and well-being.

It is the same, I suppose, as a confidence held between physician and patient. As a doctor, I would be unable, ethically, to speak of such private concerns. I would, however, discuss them with you, since you are my only trust. I depend upon your opinion. I also refuse to have even the lightest secret between us. I would, in that instance, however, request that any such letter be destroyed, therefore preserving the doctor and patient relationship.

I am offering to destroy your responses as well (once they are memorized, my sweet). If you can conceive of a better way to ensure and protect our absolute candor, then please, let me know.

I am also concerned by a few paragraphs of your most recent letter. Your irritation over the hospitality that I have been shown by both Miss Whitcomb and her maid, Miss MacIntosh, was confusing. I am horrified that I have somehow been misleading in my descriptions, that I have caused you upset. Let me assure you that neither of those ladies holds an inkling of my admiration. Miss Whitcomb exists to me only as a friend, and one who is ardently being courted by my even better friend, Ian Hyde. Even if Hyde were not interested in her romantically, you must know that neither would I be. Simply impossible!

And her maid? Good heavens, Eugenia, I do not know if I should laugh or weep. Have you forgotten entirely that she is a member of the horrendous MacIntoshes? I can scarcely stand her people, and I am grateful only that Miss Whitcomb does not hold me responsible for suggesting the posting in the first place.

I feel an intense pity for Miss Whitcomb, due to her health. That pity does not mask a secret ardent nature toward the girl. I am simply trying to aid Hyde in healing his own sweetheart, employing my newly forming medical mind upon the dire task. I am of the very firm opinion that should my own sweetheart (you) fall ill, then Hyde would return the favor and toil diligently to find whatever cure would ease you.

I am afraid that my most recent letter, the one you have not yet received, in all likelihood, has made the situation worse for me. You are probably upset that Lacey asked me to refer to her by her nickname. I thought I had explained it, telling you that MacBean himself insisted upon the oddity, but I realize now that you might misunderstand the circumstance entirely. I only address her by her nickname because she views it as an act of friendship.

Let me be abundantly clear. I am not interested in her romantically. She has eyes only for her husband. Her husband would murder me, should it be ever otherwise, which is such a fantastical thought that it boggles my mind. Even if she were unmarried, I would never so much as glance at Mrs. MacBean. There would be no cause to.

Forgive me. I was too caught up in my own dreary story to realize the nuances you would imagine. Therefore, I am going to explain things to you, very frankly and very succinctly, so that there may be no more confusion between the two of us.

You are the most beautiful lady I have ever glimpsed. The first time I saw you, it was as if all the breath had been snatched from my lungs. I was spellbound, unable to look away from you, as you were ushered into the Andrews ceilidh. You were wearing a blue dress, with an outside corset that was festooned with white ribbons. When you danced, the candlelight displayed the small white flowers you had woven through your magnificent red hair. You danced with the grace of a gazelle. You laughed at something your partner said, and I hated him violently for being the cause of your smile.

I spent an inordinate amount of time watching you, seeing the way your smile illuminated a perfect, angelic face. I became lost in the emerald depths of your eyes. Everything around me faded into nothingness. Everything but you. I caught the lingering scent of roses as you walked by, and all the words I had crafted to say to you left my mind entirely.

How I wanted to ask you to dance! How I longed to, but for reel after reel, your dance card was full. Immediately I began to make inquiry as to who you were. I had to know. And to learn that you were my new physician's daughter! Even more important, to learn that you were unmarried and not spoken for!

I fell in love with you that night, and I have loved you and you alone, without ceasing and without hesitation. No other woman exists for me. How can they, when someone like you is in the world? No other woman holds a candle to your beauty. Your charm. Your kindness. Your sharp mind!

I wish now that I had spoken before of Miss MacIntosh's bullish features. Of Miss Whitcomb's grating laugh. Of Mrs. MacBean's tendency to whisper instead of speak in regular tones. All of those things are true, and had I realized you had concerns about their presence in my life, then I would have spoken of them before.

How can you even think that I would be interested in another? That I could love another? How, when my heart is very firmly ensconced in the Highlands?

I am confused. You seem to think that, because Miss MacIntosh and her family shared the same boarding house with me, and then she was employed by Whitcomb, we now share romantic aspirations? Eugenia, darling, you cannot be serious. In many ways, you offend me!

Perhaps you should view these so-called rivals before you assume them as such. One glance, and you would see that neither Miss MacIntosh nor Miss Whitcomb are worthy of so much as standing within your shadow. Ridiculous girl!

I have decided, therefore, that you have wounded me and you have done so grievously. To so doubt my steadfastness! My love! My devotion! Well, there simply must be reparation for such an undeserved attack.

After much thought, I have decided that it is fully within my right to demand kisses from you. Several of them. Be warned that when next we meet, I will ensure that we attend a ceilidh. One in possession of a garden. I believe that two or three kisses (perhaps ten) will do much to assuage the insult you have so ruthlessly bestowed upon me.

You are warned, E. I think that you should remember this when you decide to accuse me of ever loving anyone but you. Each accusation results in more kisses. Dare I command you to do your worst? I anticipate collecting my reparation. . . .

I am writing to you from my own desk, in my own office, in Hyde's town house. I had originally planned on writing you later tonight, but I find my work finished for the evening, and decided that I might as well begin the letter now, rather than delay the pleasure.

It is strange, but until now I had not realized that this is, in fact, my own space. I can remain at my desk all night, and it is no one's concern but mine own. Hyde will not assume that I am spying on his research (a hilarious thought). No one will fuss, should I forget to lock up (and why should I, considering it is Hyde's home). If I fall asleep, with my head resting on top of the parchments and open texts, it is my own business. The luxury of possessing my own office, with its own door . . . mine to arrange, mine to haunt, is simply incredible.

I am finding it difficult to think of anything other than kissing you.

Perhaps I have not properly communicated how very much I would like to kiss you. If only we were in the same city, in the same town! After a letter like that, I should have been able to go to your house. Perhaps we could meet in your father's parlor. Perhaps he could be summoned to the hall for a brief moment. I would then take you into my arms, and kiss away any doubts you might profess to have.

Any other conversation is useless for me tonight. I find myself completely fastened upon this one topic, on this one idea.

I had originally intended to tell you about my evening last night, of how Dog Benge and I went to the Guy Fawkes celebration. I was planning on telling you all about the bonfires, which were bright conflagrations against the dark night sky. I wanted to ask if you attended the bonfire at Inverness, and perhaps we could compare the two events.