The Curious Steambox Affair (23 page)

I spotted it through a shop window, on one of my many treks through the twisting closes. The window was crammed full of display, rings and brooches and odd bits. The brooch caught my eye, sitting amid the glittering haul. I recognized an eerily similar motif from my own cane handle, the one Smithson had given me. I stared at it, and then looked again at the pin.

A delicate initial, the letter
M
, inset against a silver heart, and topped with a crown. I stared down at my cane, noticing the distinct similarity, and opened the shop door without further hesitation.

The owner was pleased to answer my questions, complimenting my exquisite taste. He explained the history of the
luckenbooth
, how it was given as a token to one's beloved, a symbol of fidelity. The
M
represents Mary, Queen of Scots, as does the crown, but the sentimentality is love and complete devotion. I wish you to have it, want you to wear it. My request that you destroy my letters leaves me with an even more dismal courtship than I had expected, and I hope that this
luckenbooth
does much to remedy that.

I want you to come to Edinburgh. I wish for you to make acquaintance with the Gentlemen, so that you can discuss their offers with me. But I am also very aware that the majority of them are bachelors. They have already reached the comfort of situation to which I am striving, and I am very aware of their allegedly “dashing” qualities. The idea of your forming attachments to any of them troubles me, and it is only too easy to imagine them all falling desperately in love with you. Your beauty, as I have assured you, is beyond comprehension, and I know without a doubt that my newfound friends will notice. And I do not trust them enough to not act upon it.

So, I ask you to wear the brooch. I ask you to choose me.

The household has settled itself back into normalcy, now that the dinner is completed. I think that we have arranged for next week's event to be back at the Whitcomb table (thank God) but followed by a visit to Hyde's gardens. Miss Whitcomb professed a great sense of comfort amid the trees, and found the humidity bolstering enough to take a few leisurely turns along the picturesque pathways. The tropical climate, coupled with your shawl, did much to strengthen her, and Hyde was extremely pleased with the success.

I am extremely pleased that there is no future dinner to plan.

I have received word from Mr. Stuart, who is one of my original subterranean boarders, back at Mitchell's house. He wishes to meet, to catch up on the past few weeks, and has invited me to come to the tavern where he works, tomorrow night.

I thought it odd, mostly because those days spent underground seem very far away. I always liked Stuart. He was the one who sent word to me when Banbury was murdered. He was always pleasant to speak to, and I decided it might be nice to hear from him if there has been anymore trouble from the terrible crimes.

I did, however, pay attention to your warnings to be careful. I am also not interested in visiting with anyone from that time period, without at least notifying one of the Gentlemen. Why return to the Underworld, without their so much as knowing that I was there? Perhaps it was an overreaction on my part, but now that I am firmly ensconced aboveground, I find myself unwilling to venture back.

And so, I contacted Dog Benge. He seemed the most pleasant companion on an outing, and also the least likely to find me ridiculous for suggesting he come along, should it prove unnecessary. I sent him a note and was pleased by the quick response in return.

He said that he would definitely be interested in visiting with Mr. Stuart, and complimented my instinctive decision to contact him. He wrote that there is no need to trust anyone at this point, particularly anyone associated with that dreadful subterranean floor. He suggested we start with a late dinner at that strange restaurant with the little windows, and then make our way to Stuart's tavern.

He also suggested that I take the weapons, which chilled me and took any enjoyment out of the evening entirely. But I will wear them. O'Sullivan has already lectured me several times (during our pistol practice) on my penchant for forgetting the leather harness. I finally told him that surely I have worn them enough, and that after sitting for hours in the police station with them under my coat, I feel unwilling to ever wear them again.

He laughed and said that the hours in the station should have made me more comfortable with them. That they became a part of me. That I should wear them every day. (Which seems stupid, considering I work in Hyde's town house, as well as live there. Can you imagine showing up to breakfast, sans coat, and displaying the arsenal?)

But I will wear them tomorrow night. And strangely, I feel at ease, knowing that they will be there. I have no intention of needing them. Mr. Stuart was once a friend, but I know his tavern is in Auld Toon, and I am unsure I will ever return there without the strange weaponry attached.

Please put the brooch on, E. And consider visiting Edinburgh.

All my love . . .

Chapter Twenty-Four

November 12

New Town

Dear Miss Campbell,

I am hoping that this letter finds you well. Things have been extremely busy here. Hyde had another delivery of a cadaver early this morning. (Thankfully not a murder victim! This one was a criminal, who admitted to many counts of theft, and was sentenced to death by the Courts.) I was surprised to be summoned from my early-morning perch, high above the streets in the camera obscura. When I learned that there was to be a cadaver delivered, I did what can only be expected. I turned the camera's lens to the street below and waited and watched for its arrival.

Hyde sighed expressively when he found me there, commenting that it was a very useless location, considering that there was much to be done in the operating room. I replied that there was not anything needing to be done, that the room was arranged just as it always was, and that I knew full well that the footmen and various other members of the household staff would simply unload the body, as directed, and that my presence was not currently required.

I handed him the usual bottle of whisky and offered him the periscope, which he took with a muttered growl.

It is always this way with Hyde. One must ignore his constant rudeness, his Darkness, and behave as if he were spouting pleasantries instead of curses. A good bottle of spirits does help, softening his mood considerably. He too enjoyed the sight of seeing the body delivered, which is a change from the usual passing traffic.

We spent the morning and into the late afternoon conducting our research. I was pleased to see the reemergence of the Steambox, which was employed, as usual, in detecting any remaining evidence of soul residue. Hyde appeared satisfied with the result, although he refused to answer any of my questions. I could see that I was beginning to annoy him, so I found more whisky, which again did much to improve his temperament.

I was able to watch him, however, with far greater ability than I was ever able to do in the Operating Theatre. After employing the Steambox, Hyde insisted that I begin our less supernatural studies, the more physical ones. Specifically, I was to acquaint myself with the internal arrangement and structure of the cadaver. I have done this numerous times as a physician's assistant, but Hyde wanted me to do so again, after the immense amount of Anatomy I have been studying.

I was to learn everything necessary, apparently, by viewing this cadaver. No specific mention of any tests he wanted conducted, so once more I was left to my own devices. I assumed he wished me a visual method of study, and so I dutifully hauled out my Anatomy text, and made great show of flipping through the pages.

It was ridiculous, really. I have worked on numerous cadavers, and know the precise location of organs and such. What I need to know is how to manage live patients, how to ferret out the source of illnesses and then administer the cure. Handing me a body like this and telling me to observe it is rather the same as handing me a reading primer and asking me to learn my letters.

But I am very aware that this is Hyde's apprenticeship. He obviously wants me to begin at the beginning, to cast aside all of my already developed ideas and look at my studies freshly. I was aware that this was likely his idea of teaching. Let me clarify that Hyde did not say as much, but I have begun to interpret his glowering silences, understanding them as well as if he were actually speaking.

Strangely enough, it was a completely different experience than expected, having the cadaver to myself. I did appreciate the opportunity to view a body, without being involved in a physician's particular parameters of study.

Knowing that there was an intense shortage of research cadavers made it seem a decadent luxury for me to have one simply for my own research purposes, as I saw fit. I could imagine the shrieks of outrage drifting from the hallowed halls of the Doctoral Council, should they know that a precious cadaver was granted to a lowly London butcher.

All of my petulance disappeared, and I immediately became lost in study, matching reality with the Anatomy sketches. I could see the ravages of various illnesses this man had suffered throughout his life, and I began to understand how a physician can read a man's story, simply by viewing the evidence remaining on his various internal organs. That story is as compelling as any literature, and I found myself taking out a journal and making copious notes.

And utilizing my knives! What a joy it was to not wait upon a physician's directive, to wield my blades as I saw fit. Knowing that this was my research, that there was no specific pattern to follow, provided me great freedoms. I was able to dissect the chest, opening up that great cavity. I was afforded time to perfect my incisions, to form what I consider my own operating style. Certainly, I have used my knives before and I am quite adept at handling them, in even the most delicate of situations, surgery-wise, but to have the opportunity to cut as I wished!

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.