The Curious Steambox Affair (9 page)

“It is beautiful,” I said, my fingers feeling strangely natural against its hilt. I complimented the hand guard. I gave a careful swish, delighting in the feel of it in the air. The blade was even more vicious than I had first assumed, and when Benge held out a section of the shroud and motioned for me to cut it, I was thrilled that it did so seamlessly.

Knives are my passion. I suppose they are in my ancestral constitution. A knife like this, well . . . even now, my fingers long to hold it once more.

I thanked him and returned it with regret. Hyde glared at me impatiently, but I did not care. To touch a knife of that caliber was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and not even Hyde can dampen that enthusiasm.

Benge told me that a friend of his in America, in Louisiana, handcrafted it for him as a gift. He seemed pleased that I appreciated it so much, and then, assuring me that the Gentlemen would be in touch, he left the operating floor as stealthily as he had arrived. I watched him ascend the stairs, wondering how it could be possible that he walked so soundlessly. The door opened, and then he was gone.

The Gentlemen? Who were they? Were they involved with the wonderful knife? Why would they be in touch? Would they contact Hyde, or me? For what purpose? What reasoning?

The questions raced through my mind. I will admit the idea of being so contacted caused an unwanted shiver. It seemed an ominous promise. Again, my curiosity was a necessary buffer, something upon which to concentrate!

I wanted to ask Hyde more, but he was busily firing up the Steambox, and so my attentions shifted to the fantastic. To see the Box again was like a return to a very enjoyable dream.

I refer now to your questions regarding the device. . . . It is roughly the size of the small cabinet in your father's study, the one in which he keeps his important papers. I took the time to measure it today (twenty-two by fourteen inches). Its inner chamber is very deep. It is made entirely of wood, with various dials and knobs on its front. The top is covered by six sets of brass levers. The Steambox is constructed so that it is run by steam, which is generated within. Several vents let out the burning air, but most of the steam and therefore the power is processed through the brass tubing, which is connected to the sides and back of the Box.

The center section is a gathering place, or holding cell, for the power that the tubes collect. The steam blends with that power, and generates more, or at least that is what I believe it is meant to do. It is supposed to create a desired temperature, but I think Hyde has far better and larger plans for it. Keep in mind, no one I have heard of, save Hyde, has actually constructed such a thing, and I have yet to learn what, precisely, he intends to do with it at all. Or if it even works properly.

I hope it makes more sense now. I would sketch a picture, but I am a horrid artist and feel sure that any such drawing would only confuse you further.

Your father has a book, in his library shelves, which can explain it far better than I can. Upper shelf, northeast corner. I believe the title regards fantastic discoveries and fantasies, but I find that the precise wording has left me entirely.

I did manage to ask Hyde, today, what he intended to do with it, with regard to Beatie. He said something about believing the soul had a lingering presence in a body after death. That seemed such a ludicrous idea that I almost laughed, but I have learned in my short time here that Hyde is a man of unreliable humor. Instead, I helped him set the dials to the desired temperature, which was well below freezing.

We shot icy air into poor Mr. Beatie's body. Hyde stared at the gauges for a long time, but he said nothing. I could not tell if the tubes collected any soul remnants at all and was unwilling to ask. I assumed that the answer was none of my concern, or else Hyde would say it.

He did say that he was requesting another cadaver. I anticipate the Doctoral Council response. It should be a cacophony of outrage, should we be given the next body, which is likely.

I anticipate not seeing a familiar face on the table, although I know I have developed more compassion than I possessed before. No one is nameless to me any longer.

Residual power of the soul, remaining within a body? My mind races with the thought.

The two carousers have returned for the night. No more singing for them, what with Beatie gone, but that does not dampen their enthusiasm or lower their decibel level. I am returning to Cooper's novel now, and must say that my mental image of Uncas has changed forever.

Thinking of you, from the depths of Edinburgh. . . .

Chapter Ten

October 3

Mitchell Boarding House

Dear Miss Campbell,

Today I received my package and I am simply stunned by the generosity. The instruments and medical books are even better than I recalled, and I spent a happy hour this morning arranging them on my worktable to my liking. You can imagine how proud I was to be their new owner, and the fact that your father included his own medical reticule, well . . . I was pleased beyond words. No assistant possesses tools as great as a physician, and the fact that I do now is beyond my comprehension.

Please convey my gratitude to your father, and tell him also that his trust in bestowing these tools has restored my faith in my chosen profession. I shall endeavor to do great things with them, as per his instructions. My only hope is that I am worthy of such bounty.

Hyde appreciated them as well, and spent most of the morning thumbing his way through the texts and murmuring approvingly over my glittering haul.

I think that he covets the set of scalpels. Rest assured, he will not be allowed so much as a loan. These things are mine!

Which brings me to the best items in the package. The things selected by you.

The scarf has spent the day firmly wrapped around my neck. Even now, I finger the fringed end, marveling at your knitting skill. It has kept the cold at bay wonderfully well, and when I press it against my nose, inhaling the scent of perfume, I am intoxicated.

My wicked Miss E., do not think that I have not inhaled a hundred times already. I am surrounded by the scent of roses, which I know was your intention. I could not ask for a better remembrance of you (as if I require one! I fear that you are in my thoughts continually) and was greatly pleased to not only be in possession of a much-needed scarf but to suffer a tease!

There might be miles between us, Miss Eugenia, but the addition of perfume to the woven strands is like a siren's call. It enchants me. As I walk through the grim closes of Auld Toon, I feel you are with me, with every breath. A decadent secret, and a reminder that you are there, no matter where I go.

Today I watched the airship churning its way through the skies, moving toward your Highlands, and I wished, oh how I wished, that I was on board.

The wooly bothy blanket! Already, it has cut the chill from my room, and your kindness in sending it is greatly appreciated. Hyde was with me while I opened the package, and he almost took the bothy from my hands, he was so envious of it. Blankets of that caliber do not exist here—they are a Highland specialty—and Hyde made a ludicrous attempt at bargaining it away from me. Rest assured, he did not succeed. The bothy is mine, and there will be no man warmer this winter in all of Edinburgh, thanks to you.

The shortbread is already gone. I made the infernal mistake of allowing Hyde to have one piece. . . . He was abjectly jealous of such a package and behaved with the sullen insistence of a child that I share. I gave him one small bit. In all my days of working alongside Hyde, this was the first moment I saw unmitigated pleasure effuse his face. His reaction to the taste made me fear I have competition for your affections.

I believe I am a better admirer than Hyde, and have prepared a list of reasons why, precisely, you should favor me over the lunatic Hyde.

I am pleasant. I drink little. I am pleasant.

If those reasons do not convince you, then be assured I will think of others.

The remainder of the shortbread was for me and me alone to enjoy, which I did. Your skill at baking rivals the knitting, and my only regret was that I did not limit myself to a few pieces. I miss it already.

I take another rose-tinged breath, and turn my thoughts to my days here.

The work is still consuming; Hyde and I are spending most of our time concentrating on the area of consumption. I am sorry to say that there is little progress, although both of us are convinced that a cure lies within our grasp. I am concentrating right now on several books of Eastern philosophy, and particularly medical texts of the Orient.

It is slow, considering there is very little translated, but I have managed to find some in the Doctoral library. I have been informed that MacDougal and Rose have, in their possession, quite the library of translated texts, but I know better than to make inquiry.

I had thought that Hyde's obsession with consumption had to do with the delicate Miss Whitcomb. I watched her quite closely this evening at dinner, and although she is frail and exhausts easily, I have yet to see the telltale signs of the disease. She is not sequestered, and although she coughs occasionally, it does not appear to result in blood. I wanted to ask about her obvious illness, but I was simply unwilling to ruin such a perfectly good evening with blatant, rude questions.

And such an evening it was! I daresay that Miss Whitcomb took special care with dinner tonight, in an attempt to cheer and comfort me after the horrific murder. A fish pie unlike any other I have enjoyed, filled with succulent haddock and slathered with potatoes heavily laced with butter! There were delicate prawns within it as well, and all was followed by a baked apple pudding. Absolute heaven, and paired with the wine . . . well, it made for a very merry party indeed.

Miss Whitcomb was quite solicitous, worrying and fretting over my tribulation. She was concerned with my continued residence at the boarding house, frightened that the murderer would strike again. I assured her that there was no need for alarm. The chances of a murderer striking again, in such a subterranean and awkward locale, are slim to none, and I see no purpose in procuring other lodgings.

I am only here to rest, and Mitchell's does not pretend a need for cheerful conversation and active social participation among its guests. I rise in the morning and depart. I return late in the evening. There is no need for pleasantries, no pretend friendships, no forced jovialities. In many ways, Mitchell Boarding House fulfills the most basic needs, and that is quite enough for me.

Miss Whitcomb argued most determinedly, making me promise to always lock my door, and suggesting that I carry a weapon of some sort. Our table had a very animated conversation discussing the merits of various guns, and knives, and she blushed prettily as we teased her for her lack of knowledge of such matters. Miss Whitcomb possesses a delightful humor, and was quick to retort that only a foolish man would reside in the Underworld without proper weaponry, debated merits or not.

She was also concerned with the lack of good dining at Mitchell's, asking me to relay a typical meal offering and then gasping with horror. I was amazed by her concern for my well-being, for my alleged lack of good health! She complained about my gauntness in comparison to Hyde! Lunacy!

Apparently, my attendance tonight at the Whitcomb table, my third invitation, gave her the right to fuss over my supposed ill-treatment. Even Hyde joined in, chastising me for selecting such a horrible boarding house, but I have said it before and will say it again, it was selected for me, and I have little desire to change, bad food or not.

It was nice to be fussed over. We had brandy in the parlor, which, coupled with the wine from dinner, served to make Hyde of nearly pleasant personality. I am still horrified by his grisly solicitousness, when it comes to Miss Whitcomb, but she seems to tolerate his company.

She is simply so frail, so given to exhaustion, that even our game of whist, before the parlor fire, tired her. She does much to hide her weakness, and Hyde ensures that she is comfortable, refilling her glass often, and tucking close her shawl. His attempt at care and concern was alarming as always, since he does not bother with gentle talk or telling glances. He is gruff but constant, and that seems to suit Miss Whitcomb just fine.

Still, it is disconcerting to watch. I wish, for her sake, that Hyde possessed an inkling of pretty manners. The lady seems in constant distress, and Hyde's rough wooing surely does not help matters.

Hyde did bring up, on our cold walk to our respective homes, the idea of possessing a weapon. Once we were out of polite company, moving among the still-restless crowd on the pavement, Hyde had much to discuss on the matter. He said that it was utterly stupid of me to not be protected by some sort of weaponry, and if I did not possess either a gun or a knife of mine own, then he would bring me something appropriate to the office tomorrow morning.

I was completely fascinated. I had not expected Hyde to be generous, and it seemed so strangely out of character that it took me a moment to respond. I finally managed to tell him that I am in possession of my butchering knives, but would be most appreciative of anything he thought wise.

Hyde lit up at the idea of my knives, and instructed me to bring them to the office tomorrow. I told him that that is where they reside, on my worktable. It was amazing to me that he had not noticed the bundle, wrapped and set in the far corner of my table, but he had not. He apparently respects my privacy as much as I do his.

I told him that I had the knives there since my arrival, since I only today received proper medical tools. In a pinch, I use my butchery knives as I see fit, and I told him that I am quite adept with the blades, although they are far larger and unwieldy compared to the treasures your father sent on. Hyde was fascinated by my admission, and demanded to see evidence of my butchering skills tomorrow morning. I told him to bring something from a butchery, some leg of lamb or roast, and I would be more than happy to show him my surgical capabilities.

It appears that he is as entranced by knives as I am, and he asked many questions about them. I told him that they were a gift from my father, a set to all of his sons. I admit I have never given the knives much thought, and although I have spent years utilizing them, back in London, I usually keep them on my desk for surgical emergencies.

I find myself anticipating his choice of appropriate weaponry. Such a strange man.

I am sad to report that I have not seen the mysterious Mr. Benge again, but the Indian is often on my mind. How could he not be? I did manage to ask Hyde more about him, yesterday at the office, but I am afraid that Hyde's answers did little to satisfy my curiosity. I asked him what Benge meant by the term “Gentlemen.” They would be in touch? Was this something I should be concerned about?

“Undoubtedly,” Hyde had muttered. He was sitting before his desk, head propped up in his hand as he perused yet another medical tome.

“Then you must tell me at least a little bit about them,” I pressed. Hyde snorted loudly (his snorts are often his only answer to an unwanted line of conversation) and I had just about resigned myself to the unanswered mystery, when I heard him speak.

“The Gentlemen are friends to my brother,” he said, making great show of turning a page. “They fancy themselves investigators.”

“Investigators!” I said, relieved at such an unexpected and simple answer. Their involvement had little to do with me, specifically. It concerned only the murder. “Well. I suppose that is why Mr. Benge came to inspect the body.”

“He did not inspect the body,” Hyde retorted. He took a deep drink of whisky and turned another page.

Relief dissipated. No hope for a simplistic answer.

“I saw him inspect the body,” I said, when the silence became unbearable. “He cut into him, and . . .”

“Dog Benge is no physician,” Hyde said crossly. He glared at me with his strange eyes. “I am the physician. I was the one who inspected the body. Good Lord, Purefoy. Do you not understand anything at all?”

No. No, I do not. Apparently, my expression said as much, because Hyde muttered incoherently beneath his breath, his scowl darkening. He sighed loudly, and then spoke more clearly.

“The Gentlemen have very specifically defined tasks. In such matters, I answer the medical questions. No one else has the capability.”

“You are a member of the, ah, Gentlemen?” I asked. Instantly, I knew that was a bad line of questioning.

“Do not be an utter dunce, butcher,” Hyde snarled. “Of course I am not. As I have said, they are my brother's friends.”

And yet he answers their medical questions? So very confusing.

“So, then, ah . . .” I paused, determined to not irritate him so greatly that he ceased speaking entirely. “Ah . . . then why was Mr. Benge present in the Theatre? What is his role within the Gentlemen hierarchy, if not to inspect the body?”

“He was here to inspect you,” Hyde said.

“Me?” I was stunned, my mind whirling. Inspect me? What? Why?

Hyde did not see fit to answer. He drank his whisky. He returned to his reading.

I could not shake the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that had settled upon my shoulders. What did Hyde mean? Certainly, I had seen the Indian watching me, with his serious, dark eyes. I remember feeling quite nervous before him, but he had been pleasant enough. Why would he possibly be inspecting me?

And even more important, had I passed whatever test he was administering?

Panic warred with my curiosity, fear at having been so strangely watched. I hated the great unknown, the feeling that everything was spinning out of my control. Inspecting me? Did these alleged investigators consider me a suspect? How had I managed to ignite interest?

And more important, how could I quash it?

It took me an hour to develop the least offensive question I could manage. There were many things I wished to ask, but the silence drifting from Hyde's desk was absolute and heavy. I knew him well enough to realize this was not a conversational topic in which he was willing to participate, for whatever mysterious reasons. At best, he would suffer one more question, so I struggled to formulate the most pressing, and the one most likely to receive proper answer.

Hyde was concentrating on a stack of correspondence, the silence broken only by the steady ticking of a clock upon his desk.

“Did I pass inspection?” I asked finally. That seemed the most important. If I had failed, then surely that would require action upon my part. That nature of that action eluded me, but I decided it best to be at least partially prepared.