The Curious Steambox Affair (16 page)

I shudder at the thought. It repulses me, but I forced myself to look at the facts. At their facts.

I knew the victims. I know knives. My defense was only that I am not a murderer, that I did not commit the crimes! Who would believe me?

Not Hyde. I was sickened by my own misconception that we were becoming friends. He probably thought it best if he washed his hands entirely of me. He was probably relieved to be done with our association, horrified that he could be working alongside a possible killer.

I am victim to the Gentlemen's whim, and I believed that this was the bit that was going to solidify the case against me. The Gentlemen are powerful. They are of Society. Who would believe that they gave me weapons? That they gave me knives? How fantastic to think that they would do such a thing. To think that they would equip a killer!

It occurred to me then that perhaps I was the one selected to take the fall. Perhaps one of them was the murderer, and they had chosen me to be the accused. The idea was sickening, and I knew that if it were true, then all indeed was lost.

I was victim to their amusement. To their sordid game. Who would believe a butcher over a Gentleman?

It was with these horrible thoughts, these clear revelations, that the door finally opened. I was too ruined to care. All I could do would be to profess my innocence, and that I knew to be a useless cause. My guilt had been arranged for me. I was guilty only of accepting gifts. Of allowing confusion to guide my life. The police, however, would see otherwise.

“Mr. Purefoy.” The voice was kind. “Mr. Purefoy, my name is August Smithson, and I am here to save you.”

Chapter Seventeen

Smithson. The Gentleman I had yet to meet. The one who had given me the cane.

I looked at him, a hundred different thoughts rushing into my mind. He was tall and elegant, dressed as impeccably as the others of his group. As I watched, he swept off his top hat, giving me a glimpse of blond hair. I suppose he was handsome, with sharply defined features and steely green eyes. He was the type that Miss Whitcomb would describe as “dashing.” His expression was one of barely suppressed mirth, and I was stunned to realize that this man seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.

At my expense. I was still the amusement of choice for the Gentlemen.

“Go to hell,” I said before I could stop myself. “You and all of your friends have done this to me.”

I apologize for the foul language, Miss Eugenia. I believe you can forgive me, considering my dire circumstances.

Mr. Smithson laughed, a deeply happy sound that only furthered my fury. He grinned as he doffed his gloves, tossing them and the hat squarely onto the table before me. He released his grip on an eerily similar cane to mine own, propping it up against the side of the table.

“Of course we have not, Purefoy. Oh! I am glad that you are still wearing your cloak and coat. You are armed, I assumed. They have not been discovered?”

“The weapons you have gifted me,” I said, my words terse and bitter, “have not been discovered. I know you are intending to frame me with them, and—”

“And that is utter nonsense, but I do appreciate your keen mind. Good to know you have looked at all the options, absurd as they are.” He continued to smile as he grasped the back of the other chair. The noise echoed as he dragged it around the table, setting it up before me. He sat facing me, as calmly as if we were conducting a normal social call.

“Mr. Purefoy, let me assure you,” he began, raising his hand to silence my furious words, “the Gentlemen and I are your friends. I am here to help you. To save you.”

“How is that possible? I am doomed. For whatever nefarious reason, I have been betrayed and framed. By you and your friends.”

Smithson laughed. “Have a bit of faith in us, lad. I will have you released within the hour.”

“Released?” I blinked, and feeling the return of confusion, I forced myself beyond it. “How is that possible?”

“I am your solicitor,” Smithson replied. He smiled. “Drummond is going to be extremely upset to see me. He should be. Arresting you with hardly a reason at all! He will be lucky if we allow him to keep his position on the force, once I am through mangling his reputation.”

I rebelled against the confusion. I fought it. Never again will I allow half answers.

“My solicitor,” I said slowly. Smithson nodded. “I cannot afford one, sir.”

“This is Gentlemen business,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “None of us are accountable to the others for our various skills. No fee will be required or accepted. Now then,” he said, sitting forward suddenly. His expression lost all humor. “I cannot stress enough to you, Mr. Purefoy, that you are to trust me in all matters. You are to say nothing. Not one word, unless I directly ask you a specific question. You speak to no policeman, answer no question. Am I understood?”

“Yes,” I said, after a lengthy silence. “But if you are truly my solicitor, I should like very much to know what is going on.”

“All in due time, Purefoy,” he said, rising from the chair as the door was once again opened. When I started to rise as well, he shook his head and motioned for me to remain seated. His gaze turned hard as he murmured, “Abject silence, sir. You are to argue with nothing that I say.”

I could not deny that I was strengthened by the presence of Smithson as Drummond walked through the doorway. I was amazed to see his reaction to the solicitor's being there. Drummond's expression would have amused me on any other day. The quick succession of surprise, then loathing, followed by an uneasy desperation would have been entertaining to observe, should I not have been in such dire straits.

“Drummond,” Smithson called out in bright cheerfulness. “How marvelous to see you again. What a poor decision you have made in arresting Mr. Purefoy.”

Drummond's gaze narrowed as he motioned for the door to be shut behind him. “I have my reasons,” he said, color beginning to stain his vein-speckled cheeks. “And not even you can cast doubt upon them.”

“Care to make a wager?” Smithson returned.

Drummond's response was sickeningly awesome to witness. Pain, acute and raw, raced across his jowly face. I knew instantly that there had been previous wagers, and that they had not turned out well for Detective Drummond.

Hope flickered to life within me.

“I suggest that you explain yourself, Detective,” Smithson said into the heavy silence. “Perhaps you should tell me why you have seen fit to arrest an innocent man.”

“Innocent?” Drummond stormed farther into the room, moving so that the table was between us. “I have circumstantial evidence that links Mr. Purefoy to three vicious murders.”

Circumstantial evidence! My heart stilled in my chest, and it was all I could do to not shout. What had been found? Immediately, I thought of my butchering knives.

“Do you?” Smithson replied coolly. “And what would that be, pray tell?”

“Mr. Purefoy was known acquaintance to all three victims.”

Smithson snorted derisively. “So, you mean to tell me that my client has been arrested for being friends with the victims?”

“He claims residence at both murder scenes.”

“An unfortunate coincidence,” Smithson said. He sat down in the vacated chair. Again, I was struck by his cheerfulness, by his sense of enjoying himself immensely. He grinned at Drummond. “Please. Tell me more.”

“He is a butcher, so he has the skills necessary to the murders.”

“He is a physician's assistant,” Smithson countered. “His father is a butcher. Do you mean that you arrested my client based on the occupation of his father? His father who resides in London?”

“He is an illegal citizen. We have reason to believe that he crossed the militarized borders without permission from the Crown—”

“You are grasping at straws, Drummond,” Smithson interrupted. “Mr. Purefoy is officially hired by the Edinburgh Doctoral Council. He works alongside the illustrious Dr. Hyde as his assistant. I have the papers that prove he is gainfully employed, so the illegal citizenry tactic is a bit much. Even for you.” He laughed again. “And these are not considered questions with regard to circumstantial evidence. Have you found a single item at any of the crime scenes that belongs to my client?”

“We only need the accounting of where he was on each night in question,” Drummond snapped. “We have the right to know where he was when the murders were allegedly performed.”

“I am in possession of those answers,” Smithson countered. “The night of Mr. Beatie's demise, my client was present at a dinner at the home of Michael Whitcomb. I have several witnesses prepared to give statements attesting to that fact.”

“We wish to know where Mr. Purefoy went after that dinner,” Drummond said, his cheeks somehow reddening in color. “Where he ate dinner hardly matters. It is what happened next.”

“Mr. Purefoy actually spent that evening as guest of Mr. Simon Trantham, who is prepared to testify that Purefoy sat up, late into the night, studying various medical texts in his library.”

What? I was stunned, Miss Eugenia. I have never been Trantham's guest, save for those few moments during his ball I spent ensconced in his library before I joined Hyde in his garden.

Smithson continued. “It was such a late hour that Mr. Trantham insisted that a room be readied for Mr. Purefoy, who did not return to the Mitchell Boarding House until after a very late breakfast at the Trantham townhome. In attendance at that breakfast were Mr. Patrick O'Sullivan and Mr. Trantham, as well as numerous servants and staff. All of them will vouch that Mr. Purefoy did not leave the town house confines until that morning. When Mr. Purefoy returned to the Mitchell house, he made the grisly discovery of Mr. Beatie's remains and if I remember correctly, he called for the police to be summoned.”

The lie fell so easily from Smithson's lips. The alibi was so smooth, so shocking that I struggled to mask my expression.

I repeat . . . I did not stay in the guest room of Trantham's house! I have never perused his library for anything other than weaponry!

“Simon Trantham?” All the blood left Drummond's face, and I watched in terrible amazement as his hands began to quiver. “What the devil is Trantham doing involved with this?”

“This arrest of yours has offended him,” Smithson said. His voice was laced with soft menace. “I spoke to him just before I arrived. I believe he is on his way here, to deal with your ineptitude with alacrity. He has an appointment with your superior. And that leaves us with Mr. Gordon MacBean, who is . . .” Smithson made great show of extracting a small gold pocket watch from inside his waistcoat. “Well, he should have arrived at the Courts by now. You do know Mr. MacBean, I believe, sir.”

My mind searched rapidly for any memory of the name MacBean. Involved with the Courts? I profess no acquaintance, and assumed he must be another member of the Gentlemen.

“The Chevaliers have nothing to do with this,” Drummond spluttered, hands worrying furiously against the table. “This is a police procedure and it is our concern, not theirs.”

“I think you might want to pause and think before speaking,” Smithson said easily. He replaced the pocket watch. “Surely you are not suggesting that a murder case, that several murder cases, actually, are not important enough for the Crown to be involved. How about the subsequent arrest and false imprisonment of an innocent man? I think the Crown might feel it is a concern that interests them very much. Now, would you like to hear the location of my client the night of murder two?”

I stared at Drummond, who appeared to be suffering from an apoplectic fit. His eyes bulged. His lips quivered. A flush the color of red wine crept across him, shading his expansive neck and reaching the top of his forehead. His fingers dug into the tabletop, his arms shaking with scarcely controlled violence.

“No,” he said finally, his voice lethal and cold. “I believe I would not care to hear that.”

“Any other unsolved mysteries or crimes you wish to accuse my client of having been involved with? Creeping around dark cemeteries perhaps, shovel in hand? An odd decapitation, here and there? Would you care to discuss how, precisely, you intend to proceed, Detective?”

Drummond's answering silence was deafening.

“Then I suggest that you release Mr. Purefoy at once,” Smithson said. “Considering that you have kept an innocent locked in here for hours, without so much as food or drink, I think that would be an appropriate choice.”

“I reserve the right to meet with Mr. Purefoy again, should there be any more questions that surface,” Drummond managed.

Smithson stared at him for a long moment, so long that it caused my panic to return. And then he laughed.

“Well,” he said as he rose to his feet. “It will be interesting to see if your replacement will wish for that right. Come, Mr. Purefoy,” Smithson said, motioning for me to stand. “I think it is time to leave.”

“You tell Simon Trantham,” Drummond shouted, obviously losing what little grip he had retained upon his temper. “You tell him that this is of no concern to him! How dare he threaten me! This is not his case! It is mine! This is my work and neither you, nor Trantham, nor any of your horrible friends can wield the power to dismiss me!”

“Word of advice, Mr. Drummond,” Smithson said, his smile remaining pleasant. “You should begin packing your belongings tonight. Just a thought. Come, Purefoy.”

I was struggling to stand, having sat still for so long. I was relieved to know that it had been for hours. It certainly felt that way, and managing to stand upright while keeping the cloak close took a bit of work. With great aplomb, Smithson grasped my arm, and then glared at Drummond.

“You should hope we do not take more offense than we have,” Smithson said quietly. “It would be a shame if you suffered half as much as my client this terrible morning.”

“What makes you so certain of his innocence?” Drummond shouted, the words reverberating through the small room.

Smithson's placid smile remained in place as he regarded the furious detective. “I know him to be innocent, because I have witnesses that vouch for his impeccable character. They give description of where he was on those horrible nights and mornings. Many, many witnesses, Drummond. I fear you have greatly embarrassed yourself.” He laughed. “Poor, poor you.”

Smithson took my arm, guiding me through the doorway and out into the station. Dismay and shock was palpable. Everyone stared. Everyone watched. I could hear snippets of conversation, mutterings of upset. Smithson ignored all of them.

Dog Benge's carriage was lingering alongside the pavement. I nearly shouted with relief to see it.

Benge smiled as the two of us climbed in. “Fifteen minutes,” the Indian intoned, gaze settled firmly upon Smithson. “It took you fifteen minutes.”

“Ten,” Smithson replied calmly. “Which means that you should pay up, Benge.”

I felt overwhelmed as the carriage blended into traffic. The familiar sights through the window were strange now, my mind still occupied with the terrors of the morning. I took a deep breath, paying scant attention to the argumentative banter of my compatriots, and did my best to gather my scattered, terrified thoughts.

“All of them,” Smithson said, his voice so laced with admiration that I snapped back to attention. “Purefoy, the man without fear, wore all of his weapons while arrested.”

“I told you,” Benge said, giving me a respectful nod. “He is an asset.”