The Curious Steambox Affair (24 page)

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 off, 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.”

“I have yet to see any fresh air in Edinburgh,” I said as I rose to my feet. “But if you can find me some, then please, I would be delighted to take some Sunday exercise.”

You can imagine my surprise, dearest E., to learn that Hyde's idea of “Sunday exercise” resulted in a very short walk to a very close tavern, where a very large glass of whisky (and a mug of coffee for me) was ordered.

There was a fire, and we sat at a table next to it. There was a sparse crowd, no more than ten men sitting at tables closer to the bar. Hyde ordered us plates of breakfast, and I was too fascinated by his idea of “exercise” to complain.

How your father would have laughed! Your father, who takes a stroll every morning in order to wake up his mind and thoughts! How could this possibly be considered exercise?

“Fresh air,” I said, taking an exaggerated sniff of the cigar-tinged tavern. I laughed. “Well. This is certainly invigorating.”

“I thought it would be best for you to go on and say whatever trouble is on your mind,” Hyde said without preamble. “I cannot abide to see my Sunday wasted by your dark glowers. Speak away, Purefoy. I dread the week if you do not.”

And so, I did. I told him everything that was of concern to me. I was scarcely aware that our drinks had arrived, as had our breakfasts. The coffee did much to loosen my tongue, and Hyde's continued silence assured me that he was interested in my monologue. I spoke of the Gentlemen, and their offer of eventual service. I relayed the events of the night before. And all the while, Hyde regarded me with his strange sea foam gaze, nodding here and there in the course of my tale, encouraging me subtly to continue.

It was with relief that I unburdened myself, focusing much of my discussion upon the mysterious stranger. I wondered aloud who this man could be. What was his interest, with regard to me? Why? I admitted to a near-constant glance over my shoulder as I made my way through town. Everyone looked suspect, every glance that drifted my way was analyzed. I told Hyde that I was beginning to fear true paranoia.

“And what does your lady make of all this?” he asked after taking a hefty sip of whisky. He arched a brow. “I hope you do not consider me as gullible as my brother. I am fully aware that your letters to your lady are far beyond General Surgeries and Anatomy. As they should be. Miss Campbell deserves the full and honest tale, just as I do.”

“She tells me to be cautious.”

Hyde smiled. “A very wise girl. I think I will like her. Well, let me assure you, Purefoy, that your Miss Campbell and I are of the same mind. There are odd things happening, that is without question, but I think that among the three of us, we will survive. With Miss Campbell and me as your advisors, you should be steered in the correct direction.”

“Advisors?” I laughed. “I can hardly see you being content in the role of advisor, Hyde.”

He smiled and took another sip of whisky. “I have been advising you since the first day you arrived in Edinburgh, Purefoy. You are my apprentice. I am the advisor.”

“Do you really possess no interest in joining the Gentlemen?” I asked. “Is that not anything that interests you?”

Hyde shrugged. “I have enough of my own troubles without involving myself in any of my brother's.”

“Do you think it should interest me?”

Hyde smiled again and signaled for delivery of more whisky. “Do you think it should interest you?”

“I have no idea.”

“Wise,” he said, his sudden laughter doing little to settle my nerves. “Which is why you are intelligent enough to actually join them.”

And that, my darling E., is the extent of our conversation. Once the whisky was delivered, it was the end of Hyde's tolerance for chatter. He insisted that I eat, that I leave everything in the very capable hands of my “advisors” and that I write you and send you his very greatest hope that you do, indeed, visit at Yuletide. He said that he would very much like for Miss Whitcomb to have an intelligent friend, which, I assure you, is the greatest compliment Hyde can bestow.

And so, I am ending this letter as I often do, asking your thoughts on what has become a very odd series of events. Your insights, dearest “advisor” are, of course, requested.

Shame I have not received any chastising letters, or else I could claim kisses, but for now, I suppose I will settle for the ten I have already earned.

All my love.

Chapter Twenty-Five

November 16

New Town

Dear Miss Campbell,

You love me in return.

There is very little news of greater importance than that. Everything else in my world pales in comparison to the confession of your recent letter. You love me. I will admit an unbearable sense of happiness, which earned me many a dark glower from Hyde. I paid him little attention, lost in the knowledge that, fantastically and may I say miraculously, you return my love. You are wearing the
luckenbooth
. You even went back to the portrait painter, and insisted that he add the brooch to the commissioned piece.

You love me, and me alone.

And you are visiting at Yuletide. To have you here! To show you Edinburgh! To finally see you again!

Tell your father that I realize his sacrifice in surrendering you during the busy season, and how much I appreciate it. I am making arrangements for you and your maid, with regard to air transport, and will also have a carriage fetch you from your cottage, so your journey should be effortless.

I sent a note this morning after receiving your letter, and informed Lacey that you had accepted her invitation to stay. I did as you requested, telling her to expect the note you posted to her. Her response was swift and full of excitement, and she assured me that both she and MacBean were very pleased that you are to visit. She is anticipating receipt of your letter, so that she might write one of her own, and begin friendship.

I also followed your instructions and told Miss Whitcomb that you had posted a letter to her as well. I spoke of it at the Whitcomb dinner last night, and she was so pleased by the thought of writing you, of having a new friendship, that I feared she might collapse from excitement. I have yet to tell her that you are indeed visiting at Yuletide (since I only learned it this morning), but I can assure you she will be just as thrilled as Lacey MacBean.

I know that everyone who meets you will love you. It is inconceivable otherwise, but let me assure you that no one can possibly love you more than I do. That, sweetest E., is impossible.

I am glad that you have already destroyed my letters, and I assure you that I have done the same with yours. Your delight in doing so pleased me, your assertion that burning the missives was the height of romance was a relieving thought. I freely admit complete ineptitude when it comes to all things romantic (as you might have noticed, dearest). I liked your claim that every good love letter should be burned promptly, thereby keeping all discussions secret between the two of us forever.

I am pleased that you have not spoken, nor will speak, to anyone with regard to the Merry Gentlemen. You are, indeed, my true confidante. You are everything.

Thank you for understanding the delicate nature of the climate in which I find myself. Your silence with regard to my daily retelling ensures my ability to continue writing. I also value your insights, and these responses from you have not disappointed me in the slightest.

I assume that you will like Hyde's idea of being my advisor. I suppose that is one word for what I consider you, but “advisor” sounds so unremarkable. And you, Eugenia Anne, are nothing short of remarkable. And while I do depend upon your very wise opinion, I think you know that my feelings for you run far deeper than anything of an advisory capacity.

I laughed out loud when I read your request to learn how to properly handle a gun. Surely you are formidable enough, sweetest girl! I fear for the entire world, should a lady of your high spirits learn how to wield such a weapon!

I can envision your beloved glower, and before you put furious pen to parchment, let me assure you that I am only jesting. In fact, I spoke of it to O'Sullivan this afternoon, while we were involved in my usual target practice. He said that he would be delighted to instruct you when you visit, and he took great pleasure in predicting that I should eventually find myself on the receiving end of the gun, should I displease you.

I am sadly acquiescent in your desire for pistol training, thinking it disloyal of you, considering that I am a knife man myself. Again, the jest. Please no saucy retort, although I would probably enjoy reading such a reply. And be forewarned that I do intend to personally instruct your butchery skills. You cannot deny the importance of a good blade, and you cannot find yourself enchanted by the sound of pistol shot, and ignore completely the sleekness and capability of a well-honed knife. I might be on my way to becoming a physician, but I am still a butcher at heart!

Forgive me. I am overcome with excitement about your impending visit. I am rambling, and I turn my thoughts now to the usual dreariness of my days here without you.

You should be interested to know that I have become quite adept at not only pistols and gun work but also with a wide variety of other weapons. Sully has taught me the deft skill of the throwing stars, which are sharp bits of metal that can be tossed toward an approaching opponent, inflicting much damage. I am competent now with all sorts of contraptions (even a longbow and crossbow, to my complete surprise). Sword work has become my favorite, and I have enjoyed incorporating much of what I know about knives to the longer blades.

The Whitcomb dinner, last night, was as pleasant as always. For me, it was much better than usual, considering I had just received your letter. The knowledge of your love made it bearable to listen to the incessant drones of the Brothers Whitcomb. I fear that they will insist on having at least one dinner while you are here, and I apologize in advance for the truly mind-numbing company they offer. If not for the cheerful presence of their sister (whom I do think you will like very much), then the dinners would be completely awful.

I do think they will want to have a dinner while you are staying with the MacBeans because the brothers are maddeningly insistent and determined that Hamish possesses a romantic desire toward their sister. They are not above forcing such a dinner, using you as a social excuse. I suppose it the only way for you to make acquaintance with Miss Whitcomb, but you must be prepared in advance that they are dismally dull men who will wish to use your visit as an opportunity to forward their own ends.

They are also brazenly mistaken in their belief that Simon Trantham possesses feelings for their sister, and now that the Brothers Dismal have been introduced to both Gentlemen, they are incapable of speaking of anything other than their now vaunted acquaintances.

Upper Merchants have always disgusted me, with their insane sense of entitlement. Promise me, Eugenia, that you will slap my face, should I ever behave so ridiculously as they. You must promise me that!

I intend to be successful at my new profession. I intend for you and I to live very well, E., but I will never forget who I am. I hold little desire to be swayed by ideas of fame and glory. I have certainly made friends with very powerful men, but I have not lost sight of the fact that I am only Alistair Purefoy. Youngest son of a London butcher. Physician's assistant and now apprentice.

I hope to one day be an independent physician. I might very well work alongside the Merry Gentlemen in their odd investigative pursuits. But no matter how successful I might be, I never want to assume delusions of grandeur. I never want to think that I am beyond myself. I would hate it if I ever developed traits of the wretched Upper Merchants!

Upper Merchants are all the same. They are never satisfied with what they have, and witness the Whitcomb brothers. They have Hyde. And yet, they want either his brother or his cousin for their sister. Hyde is not good enough, and it has nothing to do with his personality, or his own social positioning, which is higher than their own. Being the second son of a baron is far beyond anything to which the Whitcombs could aspire, and yet they are dissatisfied. They are like locusts, devouring the greener grass that is never offered to them in the first place.

I am not that way.

I am a simple man, E. I love the pursuit of knowledge. I love all things medical. I love literature. I like listening to music, and I dislike it when said music is ruined by vocal accompaniment. I like good food. I am becoming more accustomed to drinking wine and do enjoy the occasional cigar. I enjoy good company, and am a loyal friend. I do not easily sway from my opinions, once formed. I do not dismiss friendships based on social standing. I am currently in possession of powerful friends, but to me, they are not different from Mr. Stuart, the barkeep from Mitchell Boarding House.

I love to sit in the garden at night. I love the queer little restaurant with odd windows. I love the way the smoke and steam gather at the base of the cliff-side castle, and I spend hours watching it through the lenses of the camera obscura. I love writing you, and more than that, I love reading your witty responses.

Upper Merchants trouble me. It is your task as beloved advisor to ensure that I never become one. You have my permission to point said pistol toward me, should that travesty ever occur!

It also occurs to me, as I write, that both Whitcomb brothers are bachelors. I am already irritated, imagining their fawning over you. Let me warn you that I will not take kindly to such behaviors on their part, and will not hesitate to make my very strong opinions known on that subject. Keep in mind, I am recently skilled in a vast number of weapons. If they are foolish enough to flirt with you, then I might find it necessary to perform a demonstration of my newly formed talents. In their dining room.

My good mood has returned with such a thought!

The brothers did not hide their disappointment last night that neither Hamish nor Trantham had accepted their invitations to join us at dinner. I think that they expected to see Trantham later on, when we moved our party from their residence to Hyde's tropical garden. The fact that Simon Trantham did not make an appearance there did little to dampen their very fantastic enthusiasm, and Michael Whitcomb went so far as to murmur to me that he believed very strongly that Trantham did intend to make an offer for his sister.

When I asked him the source of such belief, he simply laughed and said that he understood such things. His implication was that I did not, but I am sure that my grasp upon reality is greater than Michael Whitcomb will ever have.

That reality was confirmed, late last night, once the guests had left to return to their wine shop. Simon Trantham did venture out then, wide-eyed and cautious, and very pleased to find me alone, sitting beneath the swaying coconut trees. When I teased him about his nonattendance, he laughed richly.

“The Brothers Whitcomb should grow used to disappointment,” Trantham said, settling himself on the folding wooden seat beside my own. “I have no intentions toward their sister, and I can assure you that Hamish does not, either. Who would be mad enough to face Ian, even if that were true?” he asked with a resigned shake of his head.

“I would hardly expect Hyde to be tolerant,” I admitted.

Trantham laughed. “My brother would be less than pleasant. I think The Darkness thus far would pale in comparison to what would be unleashed. Ian seldom likes people, Mr. Purefoy. I think it only right that he be allowed his two friends, without being disturbed.”

“You consider me one of Hyde's friends?” I asked, surprised by the thought.

“You are Ian's only friend,” Trantham corrected. “He is in love with Olivia Whitcomb, but too stupid to admit it, so I am forced to list her as his second friend. You, sir, are undoubtedly his friend.”

I laughed. “I find that difficult to believe. We get along well enough, I admit, but friendship? I usually think Hyde is considering and plotting my own murder.”

“He probably is,” Trantham answered with another laugh. “But he would never go through with it. I think you do not understand, Purefoy, the shock I feel at watching my brother, since you have arrived in town. I have never seen Ian behave this way. He is very nearly normal. And I have you to thank for that.”

“I?”

Trantham nodded. “My brother has always been different, Purefoy. Ever since we were children. The Darkness hit him early, and made it impossible for him to retain even the most stalwart friend. Even I, for all of my devotion to him, found it difficult to remain in his presence for very long. Ian is not one to welcome friendships, and he is too often lost in his own dark mind to allow anyone else in. Or even to tolerate their presence near him. He is barely able to function, socially, and yet his own brilliance made it possible for him to become a physician. Thank God for that, or else my brother would have been without focus entirely. His love of knowledge allowed him to concentrate on something tangible, and for that I am intensely grateful.”

He had brought a bottle of wine with him, as well as two glasses. Trantham was obviously aware of my usual habit of sitting out in the garden, well into the night. He had been expecting to find me here. He poured a generous measure of port into a glass and handed it to me as he continued to speak.

“I had grown used to my brother and his truly offensive ways. I had done much to protect the outside world from his dark wrath, insisting that he set up his office within his own town house. I thought that way he would minimize his impact upon the world at large. I have spent most of my life tidying up the damage Ian inflicts upon those around him. Let me assure you, I know that damage firsthand. My brother can be cruel, but I know that he is my responsibility. Having him move into the adjoining town house was a near miracle, and necessary, considering I have to watch over him and yet cannot bear the idea of sharing a house with him.”

He filled his own wineglass and then set the bottle down at his feet. Straightening, he leaned back more comfortably in his chair. Trantham lifted his glass of wine in a salute to me.

“You can imagine my surprise when he did not chase you away, Purefoy, within moments of meeting him. His other assistants did not last long, and I assumed you would be no different. But you were. You stayed. And somehow, miraculously, you became the only friend my brother has ever possessed. And for that, I thank you.”