The Curious Steambox Affair (13 page)

These texts and journals, coupled with those that your father sent, are as precious to me as gold. To be admitted as a physician in Edinburgh, I must be apprenticed and trained by one of their members of Council. And then, if my physician bestows a letter of recommendation, I will be allowed to sit for a qualifying exam. That exam, should I be lucky enough to be allowed to take it, centers on two subjects. Anatomy. General Surgery.

If I pass, then I am granted license as a physician.

Which leads me back to the plan I have concocted. What I am working toward. You can understand now why I care little what my fellows think of me. I pay no attention to their disregard, to their dark and groundless gossip. To have a chance to be a physician means a chance at a different life. I have certainly always wished it, and yet until I came to the city, it was an impossible thought.

To become a physician, to be allowed to take the Boards, requires years of petition to the Crown. Long, fruitless years. It is difficult enough to find a physician willing to train an apprentice fully; most prefer to keep them on indefinitely as skilled workers. Your father was interested in my training and would have petitioned for my exam, but his ill health disallowed his continued instruction. His encouragement in sending on his books and tools implies a continuation of that much-needed support, and also provides necessary instruments in that pursuit.

Does Hyde intend to train me? Anatomy and General Surgery are the normal texts. They have nothing to do with the ailments we are studying. Dare I have hope? Does his power with the Crown extend this far? Can he arrange an examination on whim?

And so, I am spending my time reading and learning as much as I can.

I am very glad that you have started Cooper's novel, and would assure you that, yes, Mr. Benge does indeed fit that landscape very accurately. I have seen him several more times. At first, I was consumed with both curiosity and then concern at his reappearance, but he seemed uninterested in observing or investigating me again. We spoke first of other matters. He shares my obsession with literature, and so we often see each other at Hay's Bookshop. He usually suggests the restaurant with the little windows, and I am only too happy to accompany him there.

It was on one of our walks to the restaurant that I first noticed the adverts.

I realize now that I have yet to describe the kiosks, but let me assure you, they are located in several places in this part of the city. It is impossible to avoid them, while steering one's way through the treacherously winding closes. You would think that in such tight spaces, amid such precipitous stair steps, kiosks such as these would not be arranged, but they are and can be a source of much dismay when these narrow passageways are at their most crowded.

Most are located at the top of the steps, but a few can be found at what I consider the crossroads of the various winding alleyways, making yet another obstacle for the pedestrian to traverse. I search my memory for anything similar in Inverness, and cannot recall. There were many in London, and as I have said, more than one here. Kiosks are round wooden structures with domed tops. Paper adverts or flyers are tacked or pasted against each side, often overlapping each other. The flyers are rarely removed, and so it often appears as if years of announcements are arranged higgledy-piggledy upon one another.

Shopkeepers utilize them to announce new items for sale, things such as chocolates or pastries. A milliner might advertise a new hat, complete with sketch and price. This is often the place where employment opportunities are announced, washerwomen needed and suchlike. Strange home remedies, no doubt containing eye of newt and other such atrocities, herald their alleged healing properties. I often laugh at some of their claims as I pass.

Other than my daily annoyance of finding myself pressed against the things, due to the immensity of the crowd, the kiosks hold little importance to me, hence my failure to describe one to you until now is not remarkable. This visit, however, when pressed against it, my eye lit upon a police bulletin, posted next to an advert from the steam mill.

The sketch caught my attention first, the brutality of it so startling me that I stopped in my tracks. I was scarcely aware that Dog Benge had paused as well, so lost was I in the horror of what was depicted.

The drawing was of a man, but (forgive me!) it was a headless man. The rest of the body had been discovered in one of the closes nearby. According to police, there had been no witnesses to the murder, no one possessed any detail of what had happened to the man (other than the obvious), or who he was. Apparently, it was as if one moment the steps were clear, the next revealed
him.

Now that the kiosk had my attention, I noticed more and more bulletins hidden amid the usual advertisements. I saw warnings posting dire consequences for the recent spate of grave robberies. A sailor was found mutilated in Leith. Another man had been stabbed to death, and police were searching for the missing torso. Torso! Such an intimate word, and to so cavalierly announce its loss was surely abnormal!

What illness was this, what terrible city would host such horrors?

“Mr. Purefoy,” Dog Benge said quietly. “You need not concern yourself.”

“Need not concern myself?” I repeated. “How can I not?”

Benge smiled and motioned me away from the now odious kiosk. “Please be assured that we are actively investigating these horrors. We do not wish you to be worried over matters that are not within your control.”

We. Again, the mysterious Gentlemen. The implication of the group's involvement made the questions bubble up once more within my mind.

“I can hardly cease worrying,” I said as we resumed our trek to the restaurant. “What sort of place is Edinburgh?”

“Edinburgh is no different from London,” Benge said easily. “Large cities have their difficulties, their intrigues. Your only task, Mr. Purefoy, is to be wary. Be watchful.”

And like Hyde, he ignored my ensuing barrage of questions, my attempts to learn more!

He has yet to mention the murders of my friends again, and seems completely uninterested in any conversation pertaining to either Beatie or Banbury. I have taken Hyde's suggestion to heart, and have kept my personal details omitted from our talks, and have not yet broached the subjects that most interest me, such as the name of his tribe, or details about what, precisely, brings an Indian to Edinburgh.

He is a pleasant dining companion, prone to affable silence. I find him a nice departure from my time spent alongside Hyde. He often seems as weary as I feel, and he apparently enjoys the long expanses of silence as much as I do.

Benge was very interested in my immersion in the medical tomes, inquiring politely if I intended to become a full-fledged physician. I admitted the truth, that it was my desire, but that I was not making a grand statement of intent, lest it somehow jinx itself. That made him laugh, and he was appreciative of my very superstitious nature, as well as my unspoken but obvious hesitation to believe anything associated with Hyde.

“Things have a way of working themselves out, Mr. Purefoy,” he said. “I suggest you keep on reading.”

He also delivered to me an invitation to a ball at Mr. Trantham's house. I was startled by it, but Benge insisted that it was not so much an invitation to attend as a command. My alarm made him smile, and he informed me that Trantham's parties were never as bad as expected, and that I could expect champagne and good food and even better company.

The ball is this coming Saturday evening. When I mentioned it to Hyde, I was further startled by his insistence that I needed to be present. I had been expecting his agreement that it was unnecessary, and had been depending on his assurances that I would not be required to go, but Hyde said that if he had to be there (which he does) then I certainly did as well.

And so, I find myself with a rare social engagement. I wish that I could say I am anticipating it, but I am not. I am tired from the tumultuous weeks I have endured. I am exhausted from too much reading, so much studying. I would like nothing more than to remain here, to spend a few hours doing nothing but staring out at the window and passing scenery beyond. But, unfortunately, that is not meant to be.

I shall endeavor to pay attention to my surroundings, and hope that I will be able to describe it accurately to you. How I wish you were here! I could claim that long-lost and much desired waltz.

Regards.

Chapter Fourteen

October 21

MacGregor Boarding House

Dear Miss Campbell,

It is morning, Sunday morning, and I have just finished my breakfast. I had thought about going into the office early, since there is a tremendous amount that I would like to accomplish, but I find myself moving languidly, and I possess little impulse to behave otherwise.

I have decided instead to indulge myself with writing you. No need to hurry into an office and a stack of work, which will wait for me regardless. Hyde will not be in today, so it is not as if he will be sitting behind his desk, glowering at my tardiness. No one will be the wiser if I go there in the late afternoon or even the evening. No one will know the difference but me, and the number of things I must read, must study, must transcribe, are all waiting upon my whim.

And so I think it best if I write you. My window is open and I can hear the streets. It was snowing again last night, and what remains upon the pavement is now colored by grime and soot. But last night it was magical, and not even the steam and coal of Edinburgh was enough to hide the whirling splendor of the falling flakes.

I am grateful that this will be a pleasant letter, and I find that I have much to tell you. Last night was the Trantham ball, and although I had great trepidation in attending, I am very pleased this morning that I did so. I think that it helped that it snowed. You might have noticed my affinity for it, and I never see snow without enjoying a sense of wonderment, even on evenings that call for the darkest moods.

I have been amazed that even a city this close and cramped cannot block the majesty of a snowfall. In many ways, Edinburgh provides a stunning backdrop to the flakes, the medieval buildings given a fairy-tale dusting, and the castle atop the mountain, white and resplendent, is truly a sight to see.

You can imagine my irritation when the snow began last night. To be in possession of a window, and not be allowed the luxury of staying in? I was horrified that I had a rare engagement, an “order” to attend a party. How much I would have liked to sit and do nothing for hours other than stare out the window at the falling snow! What sort of contrived entertainment could possibly compare with that?

But Dog Benge had sent a carriage, and it was waiting impatiently on the street below. His intuitiveness of my moods is beginning to worry me. I had not been expecting transportation, and in fact had been miserably debating the benefits of either walking or taking the funicular once more. I dreaded stepping foot on the contraption again, especially with the snow, and the long walk to Trantham's town house, located in New Town, held little appeal.

So, I was glad for the unexpected carriage, although I had the distinct impression that Benge had not sent it so much for my comfort but as to ensure that I truly did accept his invitation. He must have known that I would linger, that I would try to devise an excuse not to attend. How he would know remains a mystery, but I am convinced he is aware of things on a metaphysical level. Either he is the most intelligent man of my acquaintance, or else he possesses an awareness that defies all modern logic. Both ideas trouble me.

I was unwilling to ignore the polite summons, and so I found myself on my way into New Town. The carriage was warm, the horses sleek and fast, and they moved along the snow-dappled street with grace and agility. Staring out the windows, watching as the snow-covered buildings passed, I had the strangest sense that I was in another world. It was easy to imagine I was in Russia, and that this was a troika, and I contented myself with such thoughts until we pulled even with Trantham's home.

New Town, as I have said before, is the nicer section of the city. We arrived at an impressive row of townhomes, which reminded me instantly of those in Mayfair. A long wrought-iron fence separated the sweeping front steps from the pavement. Judging by the immense number of carriages jostling for space and pausing for passengers to alight, I knew it to be Trantham's.

His townhome was a large structure, located at the end of a row of similarly appointed homes. It was elegantly constructed, made of sleek grey stone and framed by a sliver of neat front lawn. Light spilled out from the windows of every floor, illuminating the front to my curious satisfaction. Short wrought-iron railings outlined the base of each window, and the cornices were ornate and grand.

As I descended from the carriage, I was informed by the footman that Hyde dwells in the adjoining town house. I was startled, but the truth of the matter is that once again, I had not envisioned Hyde in any other environment than the ones in which I view him regularly. It is ridiculous to admit, and very stupid of me, but until last night, I had never given a thought to where Hyde lived. It is as though I believed he disappeared into thin air every night when he left the office, only to materialize at ten o'clock the next morning. Or his existence is allowed at Whitcomb's, but beyond that . . .

I laugh now at my own ridiculousness, but last night, I was startled. Immediately, I turned to look at his town house. It, at first glance, was identical to his brother's, made of the same elegant stone and possessing identical marble front steps leading to an oversized door.

At first glance it was the same. The second glance proved different.

Let me be clear, Miss E., when I say this. Hyde's home has the same smart iron railings. It is the same height. It has the same number of floors as the Trantham house adjacent. It was obviously constructed by the same designer.

And yet, not a single window of Hyde's was illuminated by light. Not one. On closer inspection, it appeared that heavy curtains had been pulled closed, blocking any view of the inside. There was no sense of warm welcome, which was so evident next door.

But that was not the only difference between Hyde's house and that of his brother.

I struggle to explain this properly. I fear that it is something that simply must be viewed by oneself, because I find that words fail me. Throughout the night and over breakfast, I pondered on how best to describe this, how I could possibly convey on paper the oddity that I have witnessed.

Suffice it to say, it appears as if Hyde has constructed a tower in the middle of his roof. Trantham has not, and neither has the neighbor adjacent on Hyde's left.

I blinked a few times, certain my eyes were betraying me. And yet the tower remained, ensconced proudly between the two large banks of chimneys that framed the perimeters of Hyde's home.

It appeared to have several levels. It is not made of stone, so it is clearly not an original part of the town house (obviously). It is constructed of whitewashed wood, with dark exposed beams providing the medieval-styled outline. I could see wooden battlements formed at the top, I suppose to provide a widow's walk of sorts.

Deeper within, as if protected by the battlements, there was a strange rotund. I could see no windows, not in any of it. Frankly, I could not see enough of the strange tower beyond the lamplight to satisfy my curiosity. The snow falling made it appear even more fantastic, and I stood for many moments, simply gazing at it.

I was surprised that I had not noticed it as we approached, and I assume it was because I do not spend a great deal of time looking up. I will change that particular habit.

I laughed then, unable to stop myself. Only Hyde would do something so strange, and I should not have expected anything different. I wondered if the neighbors complained about the atrocity. I could not imagine Hyde caring, or catering to any aesthetical desire of others.

I could hear the conversations of other guests, as they alighted from their carriages. A butler opened the front door to welcome them, and I could see light and hear music spilling out into the snowy night.

A man emerged from the Trantham doorway, and seeing me, he called out loudly.

“Mr. Purefoy!”

Startled that he knew my name, I watched as he descended the front steps quickly. Rapidly, my mind searched for any memory of him, any introduction. It came back empty, and I quickly scanned him, determined to remember someone who so obviously knew me.

I did not recognize the face. He was not of the Doctoral Council, nor had I made his acquaintance at either of my boarding houses. He was of average height, of muscular build, but his body was already providing hints of a possible and eventual portliness. His dark muttonchops were pronounced, but they framed a cheerful expression. His gaze was alert and sharp, and he moved with such a sense of power that I intuited at once that, despite the smile, this man was extremely dangerous.

Perhaps I am spending too much time with Benge, or it was merely a result of my overindulged imagination, but I knew without a doubt that this man approaching was no one to trifle with.

Keep in mind, I am a good observer. I saw many things in that instant. His smile did not reflect in his dark eyes. His gloved hands were nearly as large as mine own and, in my opinion, appeared perfectly capable of harm. His clothes were impeccably tailored, obviously expensive, but there was something about the way he handled himself that gave the impression that he was not taken with his own vanity.

This was not an Upper Merchant approaching me, and nor did he seem vapid enough to be titled. I struggled to catalogue him, to place him in my societal hierarchy, but struggled to do so properly. Was he a rich ruffian?

He reached me, moving beyond the quaintly ornate iron front gate and onto the snowy pavement.

“Purefoy,” he said again, and I caught the unmistakable trill of an accent. “I have been expecting you. Patrick O'Sullivan,” he said by way of introduction. “I have heard much of you, sir.”

He looked up, obviously noticing what had so recently captured my attention. When he spotted Hyde's tower, he gave a great bark of a laugh. “Horrible, eh?” he said. “Trantham nearly took his head off when he built the thing, but it was of no matter to Hyde. I almost like it. It certainly gives some necessary personality to the place. Come in, come in,” he said. “I promise you, we will not bite.”

He laughed again and ushered me toward the front steps. Hurriedly, I found my voice, determined to not cause offense by my gaping silence.

“Have we previously met?” I asked.

“No,” O'Sullivan said. “But you were easy to recognize. Benge told me that you would likely be reticent to enter, and I can hardly blame you. Trantham's parties are usually such a bore, and tonight is proving no different. Still, it is amazing what becomes bearable, once the champagne starts flowing.”

It amazed me that he could still spot me out of the crowd of guests descending from carriages, reticent or not. I had not been lingering that long. When I said as much, O'Sullivan laughed again.

“Truth be told, I have been awaiting you,” he said, as we mounted the front steps. “Smithson was as well, but he became distracted. As always.” Again, the rich laughter. “But you were easy to recognize, Purefoy, just as Benge described. Your expression, sir, is far more animated than most, and your amazement at poor Hyde's folly was a good indication that I had found who I was looking for.”

My mind searched for anyone named Smithson, anyone that I had yet heard of. No one surfaced within my memory.

We had reached the front door, which was opened once more with great aplomb by a quite severe butler. Instant warmth greeted me, as did an immense light. A large chandelier, lit by flickering gas bulbs, was suspended overhead, and I fought the urge to gape at it.

There was music as well, loud and resplendent, and coming from an open set of pocket doors. The crowd of the hall was quite a crush, as people tried to make their way into what must be the ballroom. I found a flute of champagne pressed into my hand, and then O'Sullivan was tugging insistently upon my arm.

“Come on,” he shouted, his voice barely discernible over the din of conversation and orchestral swell. “I have secured the library for our meeting.”

Secured the library? That sounded ominous, and I very nearly excused myself from the party entirely.

O'Sullivan must have read my expression (I truly need to master control over my own thoughts) because he laughed again, and gripped my arm tighter. He steered me through the crowd, pausing only to return brief greetings as we made our way through the glittering throng.

It would be unfair to not include a modicum of description about my surroundings. Simon Trantham's house was indeed a thing of beauty. The furnishings were mostly of dark wood, and exquisitely made. Credenzas lined the hall, each covered with giant china vases filled expansively with fresh bouquets of flowers. There was a thick Persian carpet covering the floor, and fine artwork hung upon every available wall space. Everywhere there were gas lamps, making me feel as if I had inadvertently stepped into daylight.

As I was led forward, I was afforded quick views into equally resplendent rooms. I saw several bookshelf-lined parlors, each with a crackling fireplace and overstuffed chairs and sofas. I got a quick look into the ballroom and could see that the parquet floor was a myriad of waltzing couples. Waiters carried large silver trays with a variety of drink offerings. I could see a refreshment table teeming with pastries and cakes.

And the music!

It was compelling, and my heart leapt to hear such beauty. I have only heard such music at the few recitals I have attended, and I began to feel as if I would like nothing more than to lean against a pillar and let the majestic sounds envelop me.

But that would happen later. For now, I found myself half dragged toward the approaching library.

You can imagine my relief to see Dog Benge appear through the crowd. His sudden smile at seeing me implied that my reticence was evident. He pushed his way to me, and then matched his stride to mine own.

“I see that you have met Sully,” he said. “He is not as bad as he appears.”

“What sort of meeting am I attending?” I asked.

Benge shrugged as if it were an unimportant concern. “Sully always has an unfortunate way with words. He is our weapons expert.”