The Curious Steambox Affair (30 page)

I was aware that Anthony Martino, the Venetian, had made his way to my side. I suppose you could consider him my favorite of the pugilists, if I must have one at all. Martino tends toward silence, which I have always found wise. He came to stand beside me, not far from the still-gasping Rose. He stared at the body, his expression displaying a brief glimmer of revulsion. He glanced at MacDougal. He looked at me, his gaze lingering upon my face for a long moment.

“This is you, Hyde!” MacDougal shouted, his face shaking. “Your jealousies and selfishness have brought us here! To this moment! This time! And I have won! Do you not realize how long I have been working to achieve this goal? How many hours and months it has taken to plan? How many assistants I have hired to keep you otherwise occupied? Have you ever considered why we have been so adamant about hiring you an assistant? Oh, we toiled to find the most unsuitable candidates; we searched high and low for the most annoying, terrible creatures with whom to match you. Untalented, brainless idiots! That was our criteria for hiring! The less talent and doctoral skill, the better! The most annoying were selected! We wanted you to be so consumed with the endless parade of idiots that you paid no attention to what I was doing. What Rose and I were doing. When we found Purefoy, it was as if we had struck gold. He should have been a perfect distraction for you! An English butcher, without the sense God gave a cow. And such hands! Such magnificent, monstrous hands! He was a dead man as soon as he answered the advertisement!”

Beside me, the Venetian moved. I motioned for him to stop, to not attack MacDougal quite yet. Martino acquiesced.

“Purefoy!” MacDougal screamed. “He was supposed to distract you! He was hired to infuriate you! And instead, you came to the Doctoral Offices, day after day. You hadn't been there in years, Hyde. Years always spent working at your private office, in your private home, alongside your important brother! But Purefoy brought you to your Doctoral space, to my domain! Instead of distracting you, he focused you! How could that be possible? The oafish London butcher, as focus to a madman! His contract was supposed to be terminated. He and he alone would be blamed for the murders, should I somehow be caught. But truly, I needed his hands!”

He lunged forward then, a crazed attack. Martino reacted before I could, although my hand gripped my cane. It seemed a fine weapon. Emotion overtook me and I knew I would go to war. Dropping my useless pistol to the floor, I gripped the cane like a bludgeon.

But Anthony Martino was faster. One grasp of the Venetian's hand brought MacDougal to his knees. It happened so quickly that I am unsure of what, exactly, was the choreography of such a movement. Did he grasp his neck? His shoulder? I wish I knew the precision of Martino's response, but needless to say, MacDougal was brought swiftly to his knees. A useful, brutal skill, and one I will inquire about at a later date.

There was a flash of something metallic in Martino's hands, and I could see what resembled delicate silver pincers clutched between his thumb and forefinger.

I had little care for his violent methods, for his decision to remove fingernails. MacDougal deserved no less, and I ignored both the Venetian and the Savage's meting out of justice upon both Rose and the mad doctor. It was necessary and right, their Truth in action!

My attention was admittedly focused on the terrible creation, and I will admit (to you) my very real curiosity over the thing. For all of his mad rant, MacDougal had touched upon some intriguing concepts. Could the Steambox animate a man? The thought had never occurred to me, and while I hardly profess interest in such mundane, earthy practices, I decided that it might be wise to remove both the awful body and hideous Steambox. They were of no use to anyone now, save Purefoy and me, and once he recovered, I hoped that both might provide sources of limitless knowledge to our scientific studies.

I am keenly interested in discussing all of this with Purefoy, and am anxious for him to recover. I need him awake. My questions are roiling about my brain, particularly centering on his participation with that pathetic Steambox. It never occurred to me to interview a subject once they had been attached to the tubes. What was the sensation of harvesting? Did he notice or feel a difference once his alleged soul was disturbed? What were the aftereffects?

How I need him to awaken! To be well! To discuss this with me! He was, indeed, an active participant in science of the purest form. How I need to speak to him!

And so, you can imagine my horror to realize that the Savage was turning up the dials of that infernal box. He was lifting all the levers, with the ferocity of madness. I was even more horrified to comprehend that he was doing so on the feverish insistence of my assistant!

What was Purefoy thinking? We needed this device, vile as it was, to compare the differences with mine own! I wanted to see how it worked with the pathetic creature on the table! I assumed the soul residue was still intact, considering there was a distinct shortage of vials present (and MacDougal has never impressed me with his tidiness), so the question remained as to what, precisely, a soul-full Steambox would be capable of accomplishing.

I was torn between fury at having the science so manhandled by the Savage and fascination at seeing the reaction of the monster sprawled on the attached table as the Steambox screamed into action. Thunder rumbled from deep within the Box's inner chamber. The horrific body gave a great shudder, limbs shifting and thudding against the tabletop, as if ignited by lightning bolts.

To my awful fascination, the eyelids of the dead man lifted. I bent down, staring into those glazed, cold orbs, determined to ascertain if there was any spark, any sign of life. Was this apparent response something scientifically important? Or was it only a result of the tremendous influx of power, of either hot or cold, pushed through the brass tubing, through the mouth, and into the cavity proper? I scarcely had time to comprehend what was happening before Benge released the connection to the bed.

Oh, wake up, Purefoy! Cease the fever and illness. Wake up and discuss!

How did he know an explosion was possible? Is this something Purefoy has been considering, with regard to the Steambox? And if so, why did he never discuss it with me?

I must know!

The explosion was terrific, a great conflagration that made it necessary to turn away. And with the others, I ran. The heat was shocking, and I knew then that any lingering would be impossible. As would any rescue of either the box or the sadly constructed man. The answers to my questions, I fear, were lost in that fiery inferno. Forever.

I bent down, shielding my face with my hand as protection from the incredible blast. Through my splayed fingers, I saw the anchor-marked arm fly past. As I ran, something heavy and terrible fell against my back. Something solid. The gruesome image of that horrible head filled my mind and continues to haunt me, even as I try to push it from my thoughts.

I instructed my cousin, Hamish MacBean, to return what he could of the wretched thing (the Steambox; I have little use for fire-damaged limbs at this point) as he completed his unenviable cleanup. I retained little hope for my preferred result and he returned to the town house empty-handed, as expected. Hamish would not know a lever from a wooden stick, and any prospect of studying MacDougal's pathetic Steambox is gone forever.

I did read of the Savage's ensuing mystic experience, of what happened next with the shadowy figures. Here I find I must interject with my science. What I witnessed was unexpected, but with hindsight I have attributed such things to my lack of sharp mind. Again, I had no spirits to imbibe, and I am firmly convinced that what I saw was, to be frank, merely a hallucination brought on by lack of whisky and far too much trauma.

It was hallucination only, that sharp, shadowy figure that crowded in front of Purefoy. The madness of the night made me imagine it bending toward him, pressing its face (its mouth!) against his. Purefoy's whispered confession that his soul had returned interests me greatly, and I find it another question for which I will require answer, once he returns to consciousness.

I must end this letter swiftly and without much preamble. I realize that, for the past few paragraphs, I have apparently been murmuring beneath my breath. That has, unfortunately, brought upon me the unwanted attention of my brother. Simon has demanded to know the nature of my business, the recipient of my letter, and I fear his commandeering the thing entirely if I do not sign off now. I will post this with great haste to you, but please be assured that I am doing all I can to repair the wretched Purefoy.

Regards,

Ian Hyde

Chapter Thirty-One

November 30

New Town

Dear Mrs. Eugenia Purefoy,

You cannot know how happy it makes me to finally be able to write that name. Your proper name. My wife. I believe I must write it again. Eugenia Purefoy. Eugenia Anne Purefoy. I am still amazed that it is true, still half-convinced that all of this is some sort of wondrous dream. If it is, then do not wake me.

You have made me happy, E. So very happy. It is worth all the hell I suffered just to awaken and see you sitting at my bedside. I would cheerfully do it all again, if it meant that at the end of it, there would be You.

You were sitting there, your soft fingers brushing against my cheek. The firelight was behind you, casting you in a rosy glow. I could hear you speaking, your voice firm and without fear, as you directed Hyde and the others in whatever tasks you designated. I could feel you adjusting the bandages on my back, discussing them with Hyde. I could hear you talking in low tones to your maid, arguing over the necessity of your being there. I could smell your perfume, the light hint of roses. And your face, so splendidly beautiful that when I first focused, I was convinced that you were an angel sent from above.

But it was You. Somehow, you had come for me. Seeing you caused all the pain to fade away. It was impossible to not smile. Impossible to not take your hand, tug you toward me, and without caring for the consequences, to kiss you!

How I enjoyed your rich blush, the laughter of the Gentlemen, the horrified gasp of your maid! None of it mattered to me. You were there with me, and all I wanted was to demand that everyone leave the room, except you, and I would then pull you into bed beside me and spend a few hours . . .

I can see your wicked smile, E., and can hear your exaggerated sigh. You cannot chastise me now. We are married, and if I wish to write of such things, then there is nothing to stop me. I want nothing more than to kiss you, to make love to you. If you were here, that is exactly what we would be doing. You would be in my arms, in my bed, and I should not wish for anything more.

But, alas, Fate has decreed otherwise. How I hate it that you are gone! Pack your belongings swiftly, Eugenia. Return to Edinburgh, and to your poor husband, who misses you more than should be possible.

My hands are not hurting from the exertion of writing, which is a relief. Hyde told me to go easy on the letters, but since you will be living here soon, there will be no need for such hefty missives! My fingers feel fine, and my hands, although they still ache occasionally, seem to suffer no resulting harm. The bruises upon my skin are already fading. My arms and shoulders are recovering remarkably well, and I know that, even within a few more days, I will scarcely remember their pain.

What is pain, when one is in possession of a wife as beautiful as mine?

I am grateful that you do not mind the scars upon my back, the marks on my wrists and hands. I had feared you might find me monstrous now, that you would abhor the sight of them. But you do not. You love me, and your assertion that these scars are the markings of a Warrior pleases me greatly. Obviously, you have spent far too much time speaking with Dog Benge!

He feels strongly on the subject, and has informed me repeatedly that such markings upon my skin are a natural thing within his tribe. Rite of passage into manhood. Becoming a Warrior. He said that they are nothing to be concerned with, that they are an announcement of who I am, and what I have been through, and what I am willing to face again.

I am grateful that you feel the same way. And when you take my hand, and press your lips against my injured wrists, then I am the happiest man in all of Edinburgh. Perhaps in all the world.

And I would face it again. I would face a thousand such instances, if it meant that at the end of it all, I could be with you.

I hope your father is not too angry that we are married. I hope he understands that the infernal police questioning prevented me from accompanying you and your maid to Inverness. They were here this morning again, with Trantham, wanting more and more details. I have exhausted myself in providing them, and I know they are dissatisfied with the scant information I am providing with regard to the Steambox.

Hyde is pleased, however, that I am purposefully vague when it comes to that. I have no intention to discuss even a poor copy of his creation. I will not expose the secrets I managed to unveil, not to the police, not to anyone, save you and Hyde. The secrets of the Box are ours alone, and no amount of polite queries will sway me. I finally told Trantham that I was happy to retell every detail, over and over again, but when it came to the Steambox, then that was Hyde's creation and therefore his concern.

Trantham laughed and assured me that he did not want to know any more about any of this, and his only hope is that I will be willing to explode the thing, should it ever prove necessary again. I assured him that I could arrange that, upon request, which made him laugh harder.

Your father. I am returned to the matter of your father. I know I am repetitive, know that you believe he will be fine and pleased that we are married, but still, I insist that you offer my apologies. Please be sure to tell him that I regret not asking his permission for your hand. I know that he was aware of my serious attentions with regard to you, and know that he was aware of my courtship. But I do not want him to be offended. I should have asked him first, I know this, and I hope he is not angry.

But I also know that I could not wait to have you as my wife. After all I had been through, I was simply unwilling to be without you. Thank God MacBean was able to assure the special license. And to have a minister come to the town house . . . well, it was simply all necessary, as far as I was concerned.

And that bedside kiss, I might add, was expertly timed by me. You were so charmingly flustered, worried that I had kissed you so outrageously, but really, I knew what I was doing. Everyone in the room knew my intent. I was claiming and announcing what was mine. And your kissing me back was simply, without question, the nicest moment of my life.

Well, one of them. Be assured, you are intimately involved in all the rest.

And, as I expected, I was unwilling to leave you vulnerable to the Gentlemen bachelors. You caused quite a stir, Eugenia. All of my fears with regard to their reaction to your beauty and charm were fulfilled. Both Hamish and Sully were unabashed with their assertion that you are too beautiful for the likes of me (true). Smithson decided that perhaps you should stay with him and his sisters, instead of with MacBean. Disastrous thought.

All of these things were warning enough, giving me reason for what I already wished. A special license. My ring on your finger. My friends be damned. You are mine and mine alone!

Now that the police questioning is finished, I will be able to join you in Inverness. I will leave in a few days, and Benge has graciously agreed to accompany me. I know that he thinks I might have difficulties, or still be too weak to travel, but I am not. I told him as much, but he ignored my protests and said that he was there only to help load the trunks and luggage you would require.

There should not be much to pack. Hyde is adamant about our possessing the second floor of his town house as our own home. I asked him again if this was what he wished, or if it would be better for you and me to find a place of our own, but he was firm. He said that he would miss the convenience of having his apprentice so close by, and with the new advances I have made with regard to the Steambox, he is not willing to waste time summoning me from another address, or worse, returning to our Doctoral space!

He also told me of his request to you that you manage his household. Your acceptance pleased him greatly, and he told me that, as a bachelor, it would relieve his mind to have a lady available to oversee everything that he is completely unable to do for himself. He especially wishes you to hire new staff and take care of any parties and dinners that are necessary, and he and I shared a tremendous laugh over our pathetic attempt to host a Whitcomb dinner!

He wishes you to host Olivia Whitcomb often, and he is very pleased that the two of you are such friends. I have hope that he wants her here, and wish that your presence would mean that I would see little of the Brothers Whitcomb! And maybe, somehow, we can see fit to have Hyde and Miss Olivia as happily arranged as the two of us!

I have to warn you that Simon Trantham is interested in your managing his household as well. He approached me this afternoon, having learned of Hyde's plan to utilize your superior homemaking skills. Trantham complained bitterly about his own problems in the adjoining town house, waxing on and on about his complete ineptitude in producing anything resembling a proper home.

He spoke of his jealousies of MacBean with his Lacey, of their ability to effortlessly host parties and dinners. He whined about the problems of being a bachelor (and how I delighted in no longer being one myself!). He asked if it could be possible for you to oversee his home as well, and I took great delight in informing him that my wife (my wife!) makes her own decisions and he will have to speak to you about whether or not you would be willing to take on his household problems as well as Hyde's.

Choice is yours, sweet. I also do not mind if we forgo them entirely and rent a room someplace else, but I know that you like it here and will be far more comfortable at Hyde's than anyplace else in Edinburgh.

Of course, I must demand that you oversee me first. I cannot and will not allow my two bachelor friends to have the homemaking benefit of my lovely wife, if it somehow results in my own neglect.

I am laughing. I know you, and know you would like nothing more than to organize the world. I fully expect that both Hyde and Trantham (and myself) will be hosting a very great number of parties and such in the very near future.

Benge is in our sitting room now, glaring at me as I sit at the desk. The Venetian is here as well. I am having a difficult time calling him Tony, having conjured up an image of him as THE VENETIAN. They wish to go out to my favorite little restaurant tonight and are wanting to know if I feel strong enough for it. Tony is irritated that I have written so much, telling me that I must rest my physician hands, as they are the Merry Gentlemen's only salvation in getting away from the monstrous Hyde.

I am surrounded by their laughter as I finish this letter. My hands are fine. They hold a knife as well as they do a quill. Thank God the villains did not take away my livelihood!

I wonder if this letter will reach you before I do. My wager will be on myself. Stupid to write, really, but I find old habits difficult to break. We can fetch this letter at the Air Station in Inverness, before we close the account.

“Purefoy,” Benge just said with a sigh. “You lovesick fool. Put the pen down and come out with us. Sully has a table, and Hamish will be there. Smithson, too, I think.”

I will get into my coat and gloves and your scarf. They say that it is snowing out, but the carriage is warm. We might stop by Mr. Stuart's tavern before returning home, or maybe my old favorite coffee stall.

“Wear your weapons, Purefoy,” Tony is saying, his smile flashing against his olive-toned skin. “It is what the Merry Gentlemen do. We wear our weapons, and we go out for a very good meal, with very good friends and very fine wine.”

“Edinburgh is waiting,” Benge is adding. “Come on, Purefoy. Edinburgh is ours.”

And so, I go.