The Curious Steambox Affair (29 page)

That aside, I can hear well enough, my visual orchestra of the city no longer silent. In only moments, I knew their destination. I knew the pugilist O'Sullivan had possessed one of his finer intelligent moments (a startling thought), a location I would have ascertained, if I had been within my right mind.

And so, I followed them to the Old Physicians' Hall, armed with my pistol and cane. I did notice that Benge made no mention of my presence within his missive. Either he did not notice my trail (which casts doubt upon his allegedly superior observational skills) or he did and was upset that I was so easily able to trace the silent Savage. One never knows with Benge, and I learned long ago to not try to analyze the man too much (pointless waste of energies).

The Physicians' Hall was an obvious choice, and as I hurried toward it, I remembered with great clarity the vast vaults that lay beneath it. The pieces came together with their usual, sudden snap. Rose had met Purefoy there only days previously. It was so obvious that I found it difficult to not shout, and it was with great speed that I made my way there.

Another sip of whisky. My mind clears. All emotion gone.

I begin with the vault.

The tunnel work is extensive, cut into the mountain dirt, sculpted into various chambers. Through time, this place has had many uses. At one time, there were connecting operating theatres here, although they were not as functional as the current. For a time they were wine cellars, stocked to the brim with the offerings of a grateful population to the doctors who treated their illnesses.

They are empty in these days, save for this cold Tuesday dawn. Again, Benge did an adequate job describing the initial horror of finding Purefoy. I will not trouble you again with those specific details. You know he was hung by his wrists and beaten. At one point, he was buried alive, which was the first of many puzzles I was able to solve that morning.

The Hall, as I have said, is cut into the mountain, the vaults reached by an oddly angled pathway (so much of this city defies the usual, and even geology tends to assume Edinburgh's unlimited requirement for strange). Parts of the vaults' walls are rough stone, as is much of the floor. In this particular section, however, the floor is primarily soil, easy enough to dig into, should that be your bizarre wish. And it
was
a bizarre wish, a decidedly odd one, and I found myself wondering why MacDougal would feel the need to create what was essentially a submerged gravesite.

Was this premeditated? Obviously. The vault was well lit with abundant torchlight. Rose had met Purefoy at the Physicians' Hall before. Had he intended to seize him then, to drag him down into the Netherworld? Was he prevented in executing his dastardly plan by the presence of O'Sullivan?

Of that truth, I am convinced.

Why burial? No one would have discovered his body. (And again, I am entrusting your willingness to hear Truth. You are a lady of science. Science demands honesty, no matter the distress of topic. You too search for Truth, or else you would not be a willing partner in the tumultuous life of Alistair Purefoy. And so, I pose my question, knowing that the rougher the question, the clearer the answer.)

If they killed him outright (which they would have done, undoubtedly, if this were not a revenge-motivated crime), then his body could easily deteriorate beneath the cavernous hall for all eternity. Who would return to those dirty depths, hidden behind a fireplace? Save MacDougal and myself, there are very few left on Doctoral staff who remember the vaults at all.

Why beating? Clearly they wished him to suffer. Their dislike of Purefoy rivals their dislike of me, with a certain regard to relativity. They have known me for years, so their hatred runs deep. Purefoy has been here, what? Months? They hate him tremendously in a very short period of time, which could be a reflection of his close association with me, but I am of a firm belief that the hatred was wonderfully cultivated and earned by Alistair himself.

The grave was very freshly dug, and thus I know at least this part of the crime was not premeditated. It was an impromptu addition to a garish waltz, one fashioned by the ever-odious MacDougal and his equally hideous accomplice, Mr. Rose.

Their presence in the depths of Hell was expected. And so, I was not surprised to see the two of them, crouched like vile demons as they faced their unwanted guests.

War whoop. Mayhem. You already received word of all that. I suppose I should compliment the Gentlemen's capability for revenge, their very great skill at fighting. The butchery was indeed savage, but in the comfort of my own desk, I find myself wondering what Purefoy would have made of the whole event. Butchery, as you know, is his particular skill. I can attest to firsthand knowledge of his talent, having been witness to his unarguably fine precision work when faced with a very large leg of lamb.

Would he have appreciated their efforts? Compared to his precise finesse, they were rough. But time was of the essence, so one should forgive their brutal but steady attack. Not of Alistair's art, and certainly not of his caliber, but they completed their tasks admirably.

Please do not share this, Miss Campbell, but I must profess that, amid the horror of the moment, I did possess a quiet thrill at finding myself within the presence of such physicality. As I have said, my mind is my weapon. If I were, in fact, a member of the Merry Gentlemen, I would most certainly be ranked within the cerebrals. My Truth would likely be sought in plotting and planning, but to be amid the execution of said physical tasks proved an undeniable thrill!

There was a terrible viciousness to their method, a relentless and bloody determination for Truth! I would be lying if I did not admit (to you only!) the excitement of not only witnessing such methods but finding myself an active part.

Chapter Thirty

However, if questioned, I would never admit to such a thing, so I respectfully request that these thoughts (and this letter entirely) remain for your eyes alone.

I waited only to assure myself that they had reached Alistair, that the seven grimy dockworkers were being adequately slaughtered. I saw the avenging pugilists reach my assistant, saw them cut him down from his terrible stretch. Leaving Purefoy in the very capable hands of the Merry Gentlemen, I turned my attention to the men who interested me most.

Actually, make that one man. I had eyes only for MacDougal. I knew from too many years of tedious work that Rose possessed no opinion of his own. All of his motivations and purposes were directly ordered from MacDougal himself. The apprentice was as good as brainless. The strange assembly of body parts upon the table probably possessed more intelligence than the odious Mr. Rose.

And so, for once, I allowed my humanity free rein. I moved close and shot Rose in the stomach. Years of quiet fantasy over doing such a thing did fill my mind. I admit it, and find deep pleasure in the remembered sound of the shot, even at this present dark hour.

Rose collapsed to the floor, his moans and screams blending with the roar of subterranean battle. I purposely chose to not kill him (although my uncontained emotions shouted for me to finish the task) because I thought it might prove useful to retain the squawking parroting of any statement made by my pathetic arch-enemy, William MacDougal.

I can hardly consider him an arch-enemy, but for the sake of this missive I suppose it is an adequate term. I have always thought to be an arch-enemy, one must be an active participant in that angry relationship. Deep hatred, I have always believed, implies a glimmer of love. To be utterly frank (again, my Truth!) I have always considered MacDougal little more than an awkward snorting pig, madly scrambling for truffles in mud. His presence within my Doctoral Council duties was so far beneath my notice that I was scarcely aware of him at all, until his overzealous hatred of all things Purefoy made me take vague note of his existence upon this Earth.

Which is why I will not assume full responsibility as the source of MacDougal's hatred. Purefoy made that hatred explode, volcano-like, and I therefore hesitate to completely assume the mantle of Arch-Enemy!

Oh, you must know! I feel great responsibility for what has occurred, for the pain and suffering of my apprentice. To think that this tragedy is my fault, that the hatred directed to me was meted out upon the wretched Purefoy! Again and again, I try to have him shoulder some of the blame, cultivate part of the Enemy status, at least share it! To think that my years of mental battle (whether I was aware of it or not) resulted in this! Then I am at fault, and I am in agony!

Because, no matter my desperate reasoning, to MacDougal I alone epitomize arch-enemy. Agony!

I would like to point out that my use of the pistol made far greater sense than O'Sullivan's. I made sure to step close to my intended victim, before I fired a shot. The crazed Irishman, however, wielded his pistol like a madman, bullets flying everywhere.

It was damned stupid of him, completely unforgiveable! To fire random shots in such an enclosed space . . . why, any number of us could have been wounded! Purefoy could have been fatally shot, thanks to a stray bullet, ricocheting off one of the stone walls. The trajectory is so volatile, and I shudder to think of what could have happened, should one of the fool's bullets come near the injured Purefoy!

I have just voiced such opinions to the sentry O'Sullivan. His response was less than satisfactory, one I will not repeat on parchment, certainly not to a lady. Suffice it to say, he believes he possessed control over his bullets, which lends one to question (not for the first time) the depths of his intelligence.

The whisky has done much to suffocate the onslaught of emotion over such a topic. I pause only to refill my glass. A few sips, and I will feel better. Truth! Focus!

MacDougal. Body parts. A poor attempt at a Steambox.

Where should I begin?

Amid the cacophony of battle, amid the noise and horror of blood and gore, my attention was centered upon all these things. MacDougal was clearly affected by my quick disabling of his trusty lapdog. I ascertained quickly that the good doctor was weaponless, shirtsleeves rolled up to mid-forearm. He stood before the terrible offering upon the table like an indulgent mother before her first child's cradle. So surprised was he by this unexpected turn of events that I merely had to point my pistol toward his considerable middle to keep him in place.

Another note . . . clearly, MacDougal was not in his right mind (obviously). He did not realize that my pistol held only one shot. He dutifully raised his ham hands to the sky, in surrender to my empty chamber.

For now, I will focus upon the strange collection of body parts, arranged together on the examining table. I find myself unwilling to speak of the pathetic attempt at the Steambox quite yet. The fury at seeing it, this poor bastardizing of my work, overwhelmed me, Miss Campbell. It truly did.

I have already admitted very little control over my emotions. My residual outrage at seeing MacDougal's parody of my beloved creation causes my hands to shake as I write these words.

The body parts. I suppose you know of the murders (the others in town—those not directly associated with our Purefoy, I suppose, although I realize that all things eventually led to Alistair). There have been a great number of gruesome attacks, all mirroring those of Purefoy's doomed friends. Body parts have been severed, taken horribly and remained undiscovered by police. Graves were robbed. I was well aware of such happenings as they occurred, as were the Gentlemen, and we were all actively involved in discovering the source of such terror.

The parts arranged on the table were fashioned, fantastically, in the form of a man.

My mind worked rapidly, amid the cacophony of battle. Despite the choking burden of my own emotions, I was fascinated by the strangeness of it. Had this been what MacDougal had been after? Had he been gathering body parts, wanting to use science to create a man?

I will admit to a deep curiosity, a wonder. I saw the Steambox. (And I hesitate to call it that at all. How dare he attempt one! Compared to my masterpiece, this offering appeared held together by wax and paste. Its levers were a dull metal, obviously scavenged from somewhere dank. The dials were not as precise as mine own, the brass tubing so ill-fastened that a loud wheeze escaped every few seconds of use.)

I found myself staring at the body, at the poorly created man. Tailoring, clearly, was not important. The pieces were sewn together by long leather strips. The skill was lamentable, the stitches awkward and difficult to appreciate. It was easy to see the stops and starts, the rethinking, and my eyes followed the messy, piecemeal trails of leather like they were breadcrumbs within a forest.

Staring at it was akin to reliving the most terrible moments of the past few months. I could see the bits of Purefoy's friends . . . Banbury's oversized ears, haphazardly stitched to the side of the head. The creature's eyes and mouth were closed, but I assumed they were the orbs and tongue that had been snatched. Shin and shank had to be Robertson, poor soul. The torso matched the description of another brutal murder. The oversized forearms (one of which was covered with a tattooed image of an anchor) made me realize these were the arms of the missing sailor.

The head . . . again, I will admit fascination. How could I not, when in the presence of such pure science?

The strange body, lying before me, was topped with a terrible blending of two faces, obviously both victims of decapitation. It was as if each were sawn in half, gathered together and stitched into one monstrous visage. It was a terrible blending, an awful mash. A long, jagged (and poorly stitched) scar traveled in a meandering wave from brow to chin. One of the brass tubes was affixed to the mouth (again, possibly with paste).

I found myself wondering . . . why the two faces? Was this a nod to the differences present in each of us within humanity? Was this an attempt to create a unique look?

It was undoubtedly unique.

There were no hands. Sickeningly, I knew the truth. I was well aware of the fascination with Purefoy's hands, the constant comment from the heckling gallery over their brutish strength. I knew the details of the plan in a flash, and was so sickened with the thought that it was only with great difficulty that I managed to concentrate at all.

Was this the source of MacDougal's interest in the Steambox? This man? Was he attempting to harvest the power of souls?

Another thought . . . I wish you to know that I care little for souls, in the typical sense. I do not possess the mysticism of the Savage, or the fantastic appreciation of such things as your Purefoy. My interest in the soul is the idea of power contained within a human body. What powers a man to breathe? To walk? To perform even the simplest of functions, necessary to survival? What kernel initiates life?

If I could find that, and even bottle it, then the tenets of science could (at least theoretically) be bent to my whim. Think of the advances that could be made, my scientific, Highland friend! Think of the power one could develop. The diseases one could heal!

It is these thoughts that fuel my own Steambox inquiries. I hold little care for the fanciful ideas of one's soul, and I use the term only to categorize the essence which I am trying to capture. I leave the fanciful to the Papists, the poetic dreams to those like Purefoy.

My inspection was interrupted by the recovery of MacDougal, who had found his voice. His visage was stained with the crimson of fury. His entire face quivered with barely controlled rage.

“Ian Hyde!” he snarled. “It has come to this at last! Scientist to scientist! You see my work. You know my glory!”

“I see your madness!” I countered. “Your pathetic shadow of my Steambox.”

“Shadow?” MacDougal shouted. “This is not a shadow! How dare you, sir, confuse your own ego with my creation. You consider it yours! This is mine, damn you! It is my study, my magnificence! For once, you cannot assume commendation for a project that is not your own, Dr. Ian Hyde!”

“It is obvious that I created the Steambox first,” I countered. “And more than obvious I constructed it better.”

“Your infernal ego cannot help you now,” MacDougal screamed. “For once, your connections to the Crown cannot provide aid. It matters little that you have endless approval on all projects. Your every whim is granted, but I surpassed even you, despite the odds. Despite the hardships!”

“I can see that you have been busy,” I said drily. “I would have never considered you physical enough for grave robbing. I certainly never thought you brave enough for murder.”

“I did what needed to be done!” he continued. “You are the one acquiring all the cadavers. You hold no thought to what others might need, what we might require.”

“Why should I?” I asked. “I have seen your proposals to the Crown. Your idea of science is akin to that of a child's. Why would you be awarded bodies, when a child could find your desired answers by dissecting a toad?”

As usual, my lack of concern proved a useful weapon against his rage. His entire body shook. With his thick, white sideburns it would have been a humorous sight (if not for the raging battle all around), but the avalanche of emotions that choked me disallowed any trace of humor.

“Dissecting a toad?” he shrieked, spittle flying. One heavy hand slapped against the side of the table, causing the awful body to shudder. “I have created a man, Hyde! A man! I have spent long hours cultivating and developing my plan. I have carefully selected my victims, searching out those whose physical attributes best fulfill my needs. These were men, unimportant men! Men from the very bottom of society! They epitomized common; they belonged to no one of power! Their loss would mean nothing! I planned this! Every part of this creation has a purpose, a reasoning! Every murder a sacrifice! I took only what was needed, what best fit into my careful diagram. It is genius! That is what it is. Genius! You cannot stand to be bested, Hyde, and that is what I have done! In the game of science, I have bested you. That is the source of your derision, your angry sneer. I have won, Hyde, and I have made every ounce of blood spilled rest upon your shoulders. This is you, Hyde. You created the necessity for my methods. And for this, for what you have done, you will face the eternal damnation of Hell!”

“I have done nothing,” I said, still calm. “You have murdered many men, MacDougal. You have desecrated many graves. Those decisions were yours and yours alone—”

“These were decisions directly caused by you!” MacDougal shrieked. “By you! If you had not been awarded every cadaver, I would not have been reduced to excavating graves. I would not have resorted to murder! All of this is from you, Hyde, and you cannot stand to see me win. Look!” he said, pointing a thick finger to the gasping Steambox. “Look at my genius. I watched you brag in the Operating Theatre, with your beloved Steambox. I saw you harvest the soul energy, and I knew this was possible with mine own! How I enjoyed the harvest, just before the kill! How enjoyable it was to fasten the tubing to your Purefoy's lips, to see his eyes widen as I sucked the soul out of his body!”

His emotion, strange and fierce, was overwhelming. The noise of battle rang in my ears.

“I have kept the temperature cold!” MacDougal shouted. “It is as cold as the deepest Arctic, as if I had the luxury of ice! I have mastered the concept, Hyde. It is not yours and yours alone! It is mine! As soon as I harvested the parts I needed, the sections of limbs, the organs, the heart and brain, then they all came here,” he said, giving the table another thump. “Perfect cold. Perfect preservation. All I had to do was monitor the conditions, the dials of the Box, and I could take my time with the stitchery.”

“Obviously not,” I retorted.