The Curious Steambox Affair (4 page)

“Even butchers can read,” I said blithely. “Contrary to popular opinion, we are not unintelligent.”

I directed my attention to the front of the box, with its dials and brass levers. I had read about the possibility of such contraptions, but had certainly never seen one actually constructed. As you know from my earlier correspondence, this is a particular fascination of mine. A dream! How had he done it? I had studied sketches, but truly, a Steambox is considered an impossibility to build. My heart began thudding in excitement as I looked down and saw that the dials were quite capable of turning the entire machine into a provider of cold.

Succinctly, a Steambox is theoretically the creator of either intense heat or intense chill. To be able to create these conditions on a whim is not only a scientific marvel but could prove invaluable to the medical profession. Consider the blazing heat involved in a roaring bonfire. Or the intense and blinding cold of a snowstorm. To have all of these at one's fingertips, to possess the power inherent only in Mother Nature, could mean, at least in theory, that a physician could regulate a patient's temperature, simply by attaching the machine to the bed on which the patient is lying. You could bring heat or cold, depending upon the need. Theories abound as to what one could do with such power. The ideas are limitless.

I longed to take the machine apart for myself, to learn how Hyde had finally been able to construct one. I saw now why everyone was present to watch. A Steambox created is one thing to view, but a Steambox in action!

I looked at the patient, and was just about to inquire what his illness involved, when Hyde interrupted me.

“Who hired you? To which faction do you profess allegiance? Which of mine enemies,” Hyde said, his voice echoing louder and louder, “has seen fit to assign an English butcher as a spy upon my work? Tell me the truth, Purefoy,” he said, setting the whisky bottle down on a nearby table with a loud whack. “Do not lie to me! I want the truth!”

“I have no idea who hired me,” I answered, still too fascinated by the Steambox to look away. “I answered an advert, and frankly, I can scarcely distinguish one miserable soul from the other. It is my understanding that everyone is your enemy, and I have the distinct impression that I am disliked with as much force as you are, sir.”

“I doubt that,” Hyde retorted. “Who do you answer to, butcher?”

“I have received no welcome from any faction. All in all, this has been a miserable experience. Forgive my impudence, but you wished for the truth. No one has done anything but insult me since I arrived. I suppose that I answer to you and you alone. I am more than happy to spy for you, upon your enemies and their experiments, if that is what you wish. But you must realize, I am unable to distinguish one physician from the other, so you will have to point me in the right direction of your target. As I have said, they all look the same to me, and their collective hatred of you is hardly admirable. I believe you have this dial set a little low,” I said, pointing to one of the knobs. “Unless you wish for a breath of cold air?”

“I do not,” Hyde muttered. He stepped over, and made the necessary adjustment. He appeared cross, but the sound of the upset rumblings of the galleries seemed to cheer him somewhat. My truthful insults rustled through the observers with an alacrity that made me nervous, and I knew that, should Hyde dismiss me, I would find no sympathetic quarter.

I felt incredibly foolish, and regretted my honesty, but then the patient gave a little moan. Hyde's attention shifted.

“It is time,” he said, moving to a table and picking up a pair of gloves. He slid one on, and without hesitating, he tossed me the other. Unwilling to ask questions, I put it on my hand, watching as Hyde moved to the side of the bed.

He pulled on one of the brass tubes, freeing it from its fastenings. It sizzled and hissed beneath the escaping steam. Hyde handed it to me, and then switched his attention to the gurgling Steambox. He depressed one of the levers.

Intrigued, I brushed the tip of my ungloved index finger against the end of the tube. I expected to feel the scald of steam, of the heat that I assumed had been regulating the patient's bed at the optimum and desired temperature. Hyde, apparently, had other ideas and I was surprised that instead of feeling heat or steam, there was a strong suction. The pull was so strong that my finger was instantly attached. No heat burned me. No steam, although my mind continued to expect it.

It took effort but I managed to pull my finger away. The only hurt was from the end of the tube itself, which had yet to cool completely, but otherwise I was fine. It was no more trouble than if I had brushed against a hot oven, but even that action would cause more pain than what my finger was experiencing.

“At my command, I want you to press the tube against the patient's mouth,” Hyde said as he furiously began to depress a lever. “Step closer, butcher. If you hesitate, then all of this has been useless.”

My mind still thought it horrific to touch the patient with the brass tubing. I could feel the burn even through the glove, where the rest of the tube had yet to cool. I had only rested my finger against it for a second, so I knew of the lack of billowing steam. But, still! To press it against a patient's mouth? Would it not be best to wait until the tubing cooled completely? How sure was I that it would not cause injury?

Hyde pushed past me, and hovering over the patient, he spread a thick substance on the man's mouth, covering his lips entirely. It was cloyingly scented, making my eyes water. Hyde muttered something about it protecting the skin, and I hoped he was right.

Why had I expected the Theatre to be saner than the rest of Edinburgh? Nothing had made sense yet. Why begin now?

“Now!” Hyde shouted.

I pressed the end of the tube against the patient's lips. Just like my finger had, the man's mouth fastened against the tubing. His lips pursed slightly, parted just enough for his breath to be captured by the suctioning tube.

A great shaking began to overtake the tube I held, trembling with such force that my entire arm moved with it. It hurt my shoulder, and made it necessary to balance myself against the side of the bed. The shock and tremor was incredible, making my bones ache and my head begin to throb. I could hear the shouts of the galleries. I could see the wide-eyed terror of the patient. I could see Hyde, his hands moving swiftly against the dials and levers, with an expression akin to madness effusing his face.

“Enough!” Hyde shouted triumphantly. I realized then that he had taken my arm, and had forcibly raised it away. The tube left the patient's mouth. Dazedly, I pressed my ungloved hand against his lips, fearing that I would feel the telltale smoothness that announced a terrible burn. What if I had been wrong? What if the salve was meaningless?

My fingers felt undamaged skin. The patient gave a great, shuddering gasp, and then fainted. I pressed my thumb against the side of his neck, and determined his heart was still beating steadily.

“And that, gentlemen,” Hyde said, taking a triumphant step away from the Steambox, “is how you can properly harness the power of the soul!” He waved a small vial of smelling salts beneath the patient's nose, and the young man immediately awoke with a low moan.

The reaction from the galleries was a cacophony. Furious men stood all around. Their shouts echoed across the room. “Sacrilege!” “Impossible!” “Madman!”

“You harness the soul,” I said, ignoring the clamor. “How is that possible?”

Hyde shrugged. “I siphon the energy. Soul stays over there,” he said, pointing negligently to the patient. “I capture the energy.”

“And keep it there,” I murmured as I stared with admiration at the Steambox.

Hyde neither acknowledged nor refuted my statement. He busily turned off dials and depressed levers, causing the Steambox to make a loud, shuddering gasp. Another expulsion of steam filled the room, adding to the insane hubbub from above.

Let me assure you, Miss Campbell, the patient was indeed uninjured. The siphoning did not hurt him in the slightest, although he was frightened by the tremendous shaking. He recovered admirably, and Hyde's offering of the whisky bottle was much appreciated by the test subject.

I inquired as to what Hyde intended to do with the stored energies of the soul. He ignored me for a while as he made a few notes in a moleskin journal.

“What should I do with the stored energies, Purefoy?” he asked finally, not bothering to look up from the open journal. “What opinion does the English butcher have on such topics?”

I laughed. “A good English butcher possesses the same opinion as a good assistant. What should you do with the stored energies, Dr. Hyde?”

“Whatever I wish,” Hyde answered. He shrugged into his coat. “And now, I wish for luncheon.”

Chapter Four

September 10

R. M. Hay Bookshop

Dear Miss Campbell,

You can imagine my delight in receiving your letter. I immediately procured a bench in the Air Station terminal and devoured its contents. I was pleased to hear the details of your days in Inverness, of your walks alongside the Loch. It was only too easy to imagine myself there, and the noises and din of the Station paled and faded as I was overcome with the idea of fresh Highland air and your good company.

Your letter was a source of great enjoyment for my mind during the long hours spent in the Theatre. Time and again, while involved with some tedious procedure, my thoughts would return to your cheerful conversation. I am relieved that you enjoyed my letter as well, and anticipate your receipt of my second. All of my worries on conversational choice have been laid to rest, thanks to your kind words.

You should be in possession of my second letter by now. I am fascinated to learn of the timetable involved with using air travel. It seems faster service than via the road routes. I have not had good luck with mail coaches. In my experience, they tend to lose more letters than they deliver. I hope that my second letter did arrive, and hopefully in better shape than it probably would have, if it had gone by land.

I am happy that you spoke of yourself, and greatly enjoyed your ridiculous dislike of your given name. Eugenia is a very fine name, and I see no reason why you should believe otherwise. It is of no consequence to me that you prefer to be known as Anne. To me, I will always be writing the intriguing Miss Eugenia Campbell, not Miss Eugenia Anne Campbell, and there is very little you can do to change my opinion on that subject.

I am smiling while reading over this, and I hope you are doing the same.

I was pleased to hear that your father is doing well and that he is enjoying his retirement. I also greatly appreciate his offer of his medical books and instruments, and would be honored to accept them as mine own. If you do not mind sending them to me, at the Air Station address, then all postage costs will be assumed by my account. Please thank him for me, and assure him that I shall endeavor to use them with the same care he always exhibited.

Your concern over my wellbeing was immensely pleasing, but I do not wish for you to be worried for me. Please be aware that I am managing quite well, and have acclimated myself a little better to Auld Toon. I still become lost on occasion, through the narrow, winding catacombs of the closes, but if I keep to my outlined paths to the Operating Theatre and such, then I succeed reasonably well. There is method to the madness of the closes, and I have developed quite the mental map.

You asked for more details about my subterranean abode. There is really very little to describe. A very small room, with scarcely enough space for the little bits of furniture contained within. There is a narrow iron-framed bed and then a small vanity topped with a mirror. A stout, short cupboard, but due to the lack of available space I keep most of my belongings in trunks. There is a desk and chair. The floor is stone, and can be cold to the touch.

There is no fireplace. No windows, of course, due to the below-the-streets locale.

I do not wish for you to be concerned with the cramped living or think that it is in some way unsafe. There is a good sturdy lock upon the door, and the Mitchells do not seem particularly interested in rifling through my belongings. This room, this snug, is ideal for me, considering I spend very little time within the boarding house at all. I rest there. The remaining hours are spent either at the Operating Theatre or exploring what is proving to be a vastly interesting city.

I have ventured out again tonight, and am currently sitting at Hay's Bookshop, located just beyond my boarding house. This place is a wonderful respite after the long day working, and is a necessary break from the confines of my snug. I had a very robust dinner of soup and cold cuts at a coffeehouse close by, and have finally settled myself here, to both reread your letter and to write one in response.

Hay's Bookshop has become one of my favorite haunts. I find myself lost amid the various stacks and shelves. Such an offering! There are desks available in the far corner, with nice gas lamps and comfortable chairs. And most important, a fireplace!

So tonight, I have packed parchment, quill, and ink into my carpetbag. There is no one disturbing me as I write you. I have selected a desk close to the fire and can feel its warmth. The proprietor does not mind that I have brought in coffee, and it is working wonders on the deep chill that I fear has permanently settled into my bones.

I would be delighted to procure any novels you might desire. Yesterday, I purchased a copy of
The Last of the Mohicans
by Mr. James Fenimore Cooper. It is supposed to be an exciting accounting of America and the New World, and I can envision many nights spent lost amid its pages. America fascinates me, and it is my supreme wish to one day visit its shores. For now, Cooper's novel will have to suffice, and I hope it does not disappoint. There is nothing I like less than a novel that disintegrates in both plot and structure. A flip through the pages assures me that this is not the case with Cooper, but I will not know until I truly invest.

If you would, please, send me authors and titles that interest you. I will procure and send them promptly. I know that Inverness is in sore need of such a shop, and am unwilling for you to suffer from a lack of literature when I have resources so readily at my fingertips.

There is a constant rain that falls upon this coal-streaked city, but it is providing a nice orchestra against the shop windowpanes. From where I am sitting, I can see out a window at the bricked street beyond. There are gas lampposts glowing, and they throw terrific shadows against the closely set walls. You would think that the rain and chill would cause a lessening in the traffic outside, but it seems that nothing halts these hardy citizens. Pedestrians crowd the pavement, and the carriage traffic is relentless.

A perfect evening to be sitting in front of a fire, surrounded by books, while writing the enigmatic Miss Eugenia Campbell.

I should be more fatigued than I am, due to the immense amount of work I have conducted. But, as I have said, your letter provided me enough fuel to get through the day. It not only strengthened me but gave me a much-needed sense of humor and cheer.

I scan your letter, assuring myself that I have answered your questions adequately. I must remind myself that you have just received my accounting of the Steambox. Forgive me my assumptions as to your responses. It is difficult, this letter writing, when what I should really like to do is come and sit before your father's fire, and speak to the two of you about all the wonders I have seen thus far.

But tonight, I only have the cheerful scratch of the quill against the page. It will have to do, for now.

Hyde has yet to perform any such extravagance as what I witnessed with the Steambox. In fact, I have yet to glimpse the contraption again. He keeps it locked away in a cupboard in his office, and any time I mention it, he gives me a very blank expression that forbids any further questioning on the subject. The examining table has been returned to his office, but the brass tubes and such have been squirreled away. Save for the fastenings against the side of the table, I should think that I had imagined the entire matter.

I am of half a mind that he concocted the experiment as some sort of bizarre welcome, but that idea implies an interest in me that Hyde does not currently exhibit. And so the Steambox and the suctioning of soulful power is relegated to yet another mystery I have been subjected to in my time here.

I have undertaken my scientific duties alongside Hyde, although he is still of the opinion that he has no need for an assistant, particularly a butcher who hails from London. On my own, I hunted down his office, and made a place for myself. I commandeered a worktable, and have set up my medical tomes and instruments.

I am anticipating the arrival of your father's gifts, and have already spent an inordinate amount of time arranging them all to my liking on my table, in my mind. You must know that, thanks to his kindness, I will be the best-equipped assistant in residence.

I have decided to ignore Hyde's complaints with regard to my lingering presence in his office, and have instead assumed the tasks presented to me. Let me be abundantly clear. Hyde presented no tasks. But after quiet observation, I could deduce what projects he was working on, and I began my normal procedures as if I had been given proper instructions.

Thus far, my days are forming a pattern of their own.

I have acquainted myself with his schedule, and have arranged it so that I arrive at the office a half hour before he does. He likes coffee, so I always bring him a cup from my favorite stall. I noticed that he prefers the windows of the office open to the cold air, so I immediately arrange that. I gather the post and set it in the middle of his desk. I jot down reminders of looming calendar appointments. I place my carefully worded suggestions and notes on his current projects beside the mail, and I never mention them, once he arrives.

I have, however, noticed that he reads them. He never comments, or adjusts his own research with regard to my suggestions. But his lack of response seems a sort of acceptance. He has yet to toss them out the window, which is what he did when I made the mistake of leaving a note from Dr. MacDougal on his desk.

I am extremely good, Miss Campbell, with observation. I am dogged and persistent, and Hyde is proving to be a most interesting subject. My first day, working alongside him, I concentrated on staying out of his way. I watched. I listened. I observed. I learned his patterns, his requirements, merely by watching and remaining silent. Which seemed perfectly acceptable to Hyde, who chose to ignore me as if I did not exist at all.

You must believe me mad, but truly, Miss Campbell, this has been one of the more enjoyable postings I have yet had. Save for Inverness, which was, by far, the most delightful placing possible, Edinburgh is quickly proving itself in an entirely different way. You already know that I read too much. I imagine too much. But what I also enjoy is the process of observation and then implementation. I delight in hardship and adversity. Edinburgh has given me that in spades.

I am a very quick learner, and this has always proven to my advantage.

So, for example, I now open all missives from MacDougal on my own. If I decide they are important, I scribble down the barest facts or instructions on Hyde's calendar. I am careful to omit any mention of MacDougal's name.

No more furious reaction. No more unopened letters being tossed to the bricked street.

I have also taken the liberty to arrive every morning with a bottle of spirits, which I leave as a peace offering on his worktable.

By the time Hyde arrives in the morning, I am sure to be deeply involved in the projects. No greeting. I do not look up from my books when he strides in. I covertly watch him from my peripheral vision. I can see his displeasure at my continued presence. Hyde is anything but subtle, but his low grumblings remain ignored by me. He then notices that I am busy with my own tasks. He sees the whisky. The coffee. The notes and correspondence.

There is cold air, billowing. I can hear the shouts of carriage drivers and merchants from the street below. But the office itself is quiet, the only sound the turning of pages, or my quill against the page as I write down notes. No conversation, not until he has a few sips of his whisky or coffee, and even then, conversation is sparse, at best.

This seems to work well enough for Hyde. He has not commented on my work, on my daily pattern, but I have decided that is a good thing. I think that if something displeased him, he would not hesitate to say so.

We have begun a rather pleasant routine of quiet, deep research, followed by an equally quiet luncheon, usually at a smallish restaurant adjacent to the Theatre. He is still openly suspicious about me, and my alleged allegiance to whatever factions are within the Doctoral Council, but I think that even Hyde has been unable to ignore the chilly reception I receive from those around me. It is difficult to be a spy when one is openly and truly disliked. And when asked, I am extremely candid about the fact that I am not beloved by anyone, faction or not.

Again, I do not wish to alarm you, Miss Campbell, with any rudeness on behalf of my employer. I am absolutely untroubled by it, and my good humor is in no way affected by the surliness of my fellow man. The work that I am conducting is truly fascinating, and there is so much of it that I care little for the subtle nuances of the social game.

Currently, we are engrossed in searching out a better way to treat consumption, and I have taken it upon myself (since I believe this is what Hyde would wish me to do, should he be a normal employer who verbalized my task list) to outline and document known procedures from various sources. Hyde is of a very firm belief that it is treatable, and that the cure is just beyond our grasp. I am inclined to agree, and have thrown myself wholeheartedly into a deep and seemingly bottomless pit of research.

Time and time again, I return my thoughts to the Steambox, but Hyde is silent on the matter. At night, my thoughts are consumed with thoughts of the soul, and in my sparse amount of spare time, I have begun to research everything I can on that topic. I have looked extensively at the Bible, making notes of any mention of the soul. I have delved into the world of academia, and am particularly fascinated by history's take on its existence.

I find myself wondering what Hyde has in mind with the Steambox. What does he wish to do with such power? As I said in my previous letter, the possibilities are endless. Is he political? Is he working on a war machine? Is that why he possesses unlimited freedom from the Crown?

These are the thoughts that keep me awake at night. These are the questions I ponder.

And as I have said, I am very good at observation. I have every faith that I will find my answers. Give me time, Miss Eugenia, and I will.