The Curious Steambox Affair (25 page)

“I think we just understand each other,” I admitted after taking a sip of wine. “I do not know what it is. Perhaps I am simply capable of staying out of his way.”

“You have succeeded where I have failed, then,” Trantham said. “I have spent my life trying to do that, only to find myself within the path of his fury. You are able to share a house with him,” he said, shaking his head in amazement. “You are truly constructed of strong stuff, Purefoy.”

“Perhaps I am mad,” I answered, grinning over his laughter.

“Perhaps you are,” he replied. “But it is a necessary madness, Purefoy. And an appreciated one. I think you are the brother Hyde was never willing for me to be, or that I was willing to be. I have never been much for staying out of his way, or patient enough to attempt understanding.”

He asked me then how the dinner had gone. He wished to know if we were seeing any results in Miss Whitcomb's turns about the tropical gardens. I said that I was unsure if it was affecting her, but Hyde seemed pleased with her enjoyment of his creation.

“I wish you could convince him to marry her.” Trantham sighed. “He has made such an improvement, having you as a friend. Just think if he were married! We could even convince them to move elsewhere, someplace far away! Although I hate to wish that fate upon the tragic Miss Whitcomb.”

“Perhaps I could convince her to propose to him,” I mused, which resulted in great laughter on both our parts.

We are still desperately searching through MacDougal's texts, making notes as we go. I have yet to find anything that matches her specific ailments, but Hyde remains cheerful, so I have hopes that we are nearing a cure. He seems to enjoy his Thursday turn about the garden, with Miss Whitcomb on his arm. I watch the two of them, lost in their conversation, as her brothers trail dutifully behind them.

I am interested for you to learn if she does, in fact, possess feelings for Hyde. I believe that she does, but you know my own dismal lack of romanticism. I do not want to have lost myself in a foolish hope, and wish for you, in one of your girlish conversations with her, to discover if she holds any tender feelings for the man. If she does (as I believe she does) then I am concocting several ideas to advance his romance. I know Hyde loves her, that much is obvious, even to the Dismal Brothers. But I also know that Hyde is horrible and stubborn and probably afraid she will die, and is unwilling to do anything reckless that could inadvertently cause that to happen.

She is probably not strong enough for a marriage, and certainly not strong enough to survive one to Hyde. But I am hopeful for them both, and dogged to see it done.

I am as Simon Trantham said. I am mad. I am mad with my own love for you. I am determined to see Miss Whitcomb live, and for her and Hyde to know the sort of happiness to which I am newly accustomed. I am already in possession of Trantham's blessing, should I manage to force an engagement between the two, so I know it is possible.

I will, however, wait upon your good word. I need for you to ask her the questions that I cannot. If she does love him, then I will baldly inform Hyde that he simply must marry her, or else he will lose my good opinion forever.

It is a thought, anyway.

I received a strange note this morning, addressed to me at Hyde's town house. It was with great disgust that I realized it was from Mr. Rose. You remember Rose, Dr. MacDougal's assistant. It seems that he is irate (as expected) over my being awarded a cadaver for myself, and tracked me down at Hyde's in an apparent desire to chastise me for my indulgent extravagance. I took a fiendish pleasure in reading his fury, his insistence that we meet to discuss my studies.

I showed it to Hyde, who was equally pleased by such blatant outrage. I asked him if I was required to meet with the man, and he simply shrugged his shoulders, said that he would not be caught dead with someone as awful as Rose, but if it was my form of perverse entertainment, then who was he to stop me? He did say that if I did go out, that I was to bring back a few bottles of whisky on my way home.

Rose wishes to meet tomorrow night, at the Old Physicians' Hall, which is just down the road from me in New Town. I had already decided not to go, although I always enjoy watching Rose with his apoplectic fits, but I made the mistake of discussing it with O'Sullivan, during our target practice.

Sully thought it great fun, finding humor in the idea of my insulting one of my fellow assistants. He decided that I should meet with the man, simply because it would be fascinating to watch. Sully wishes to accompany me, and perhaps after that we could visit the little restaurant that Benge is so fond of.

Please be assured that since my meeting with Stuart at his tavern, I have not made it a habit to wander around town unaccompanied. The strangeness of such a mysterious query, coupled with the lingering thoughts of the murders, was too much, even for me. I found myself continually looking over my shoulder, and that did make walking in such narrow closes difficult. Not to mention foolhardy, and the knowledge of your love, your dependence has made me unwilling to risk myself with such solitary wanderings. I have decided that only the most necessary of outings are worth being alone, and have decided to await a companion on anything other than the most important of excursions.

It seemed a wise decision, if one that saddened me. How I miss the freedoms of walking around, traipsing the long stairways of Auld Toon! And so, I will admit to experiencing a deep joy when Sully agreed to visit Rose. Please be assured that there is strength in numbers, so I know we will be quite safe.

And so, it is a plan. I will admit I am in possession of a morbid curiosity in seeing Rose again. I have not seen anyone of a Doctoral nature since I was dismissed. Sully insists that we take our weapons and give the man a good scare, which should provide for an interesting next letter for you.

All my love . . .

Chapter Twenty-Six

November 19

Hay's Bookshop

Dear Miss Campbell,

I have come here tonight to secure an order for new books, some of which are mandatory readings selected for me by Hyde. More Surgery texts, I fear. Dismal readings. I find myself longing for the evenings when I used to read real novels, and fear that those days are long to be elusive for me.

That fear has not, however, kept me from including a few purchases of mine own in the order. I had your list of requested books, and procured all of them. What was not here will be sent for, and I made sure that Mr. Hay understood to get the prettiest and nicest copies he could find. I did find the poetry collections you wanted, and Hay assures me that the rest of the books should arrive well before your Yuletide visit.

I had not planned on staying here, and had originally thought to begin this letter when I returned home. But I saw my once usual desk, and was overcome with a sense of nostalgia. How much I used to enjoy sitting here and writing you, far away from the depths of Auld Toon. How luxurious seemed the fire!

I am rarely nostalgic, scarcely sentimental, but it is snowing out tonight, my love. I found myself visiting my old coffee stall. I got a mug of the dark brew (which is dreadful compared to what Hyde serves, but even that shock cannot stop me from revisiting old memories!). I returned then to my desk, and having purchased a stack of parchment and new pen and ink, I decided to indulge myself.

I can see the snow falling beyond the shop windows. I see it gathering along the bricked streets. There is traffic out, and through the glass, I can hear the shouts and cries of the pedestrians, endlessly traversing the snow-slicked pavements. There is the familiar flicker of gaslights, forming shadows against the passing carriages. All of it once seemed so strange to me, so foreign, and yet the rhythm and bustling pace that surrounds me now seems usual and expected.

I anticipate showing you all this. I can envision wandering through the closes and seeing your delight in such a strange, medieval city. I am even willing to brave the funicular again, should you wish to. I cannot wait to bring you here, to Hay's, and see your expression light up with being surrounded with such a variety of books.

Be aware that I will probably find it impossible to surrender you, once you are here. You are warned, E. I fear that this city will prove dull and dismal once the Yule is over, and the New Year begins. If you are gone, returned to the Highlands, then how dreary it will be for your poor physician's assistant!

I suppose I should tell you about the meeting with Rose on Saturday. It was even more enjoyable than Sully anticipated, although I am unsure if Rose found half as much pleasure in it as we did. I know that I should feel badly for what can only be described as misbehavior. But I do not, and can assure you that Mr. Rose has never been kind or helpful to me in any manner, so Saturday's meeting was without a doubt well deserved.

Sully arrived at Hyde's parlor, just before the appointed meeting time. I again invited Hyde to accompany us (much to Sully's obvious alarm) but Hyde adamantly refused. He said that he could not think what would be a worse way to spend time, meeting with anyone from the Doctoral Council, or having conversation with either me or O'Sullivan.

Sully sighed expressively as we left, making our way down the crowded pavement. There was no need to use the carriage. The Old Physicians' Hall is not a far walk from the Hyde town house. I had been there once or twice before, but it is not utilized by the Council with as much frequency as it was in the past. The Hall is officially used as a meeting or gathering place for doctors and their assistants, but it is now considered more for formal, ceremonial use. Which means that there is little use for the Hall, considering that no one on MacDougal's Council sees fit to do anything formally.

Keep in mind, my auspicious release from Doctoral service was conducted in the Operating Theatre. I find great humor in the insult that such a proceeding was not considered formal, therefore not requiring the Hall. My previous visits to the Hall were to acquaint myself with Doctoral locations only. Until Saturday, I had not ever been summoned there.

“I do not know how you abide Hyde,” Sully said, once we were well out of earshot of the town house. “Dismal man. I always pitied Trantham, being related to him, but I think I pity you more for having to share the same roof.”

“Hyde is fine enough,” I said with a shrug. I was well aware that Hyde was probably watching our slow progress through the camera obscura and am yet unsure if that viewing involves the capability of sound. Certainly, Hyde has shown me nothing of the sort, and as far as I know, the camera displays images only.

I do know Hyde well enough to believe that there could be the possibility of sound being captured by the strange device. My not knowing means little, and I found myself unwilling to speak ill of the man without knowing for sure that he was not capable of a fantastic eavesdrop.

“Some say he is the devil incarnate,” Sully said with his thick Irish brogue. Again, I noticed that although he was smiling, that alleged mirth did not reach the depths of his dark eyes. I have noticed that trait several times in the man during our weaponry practice. O'Sullivan pretends much humor and good cheer, and yet I am unable to ignore the fact that his eyes do not reflect his laughter.

Do not misunderstand me. He has proven himself to be a good friend. There is nothing to complain about with regard to Sully, and yet I cannot ignore the very base meanness that is evident in his every expression. No attempted joviality hides it, and it is my belief that he uses humor as a shield to discern and protect his true line of questioning.

“Hyde can be difficult, at times,” I admitted, trying to strike a balance between good conversation and protecting myself from possible eavesdropping. “I think, really, that he likes to be left alone. He likes his routine. As long as one does not disturb it, then—”

“His routine!” Sully laughed. “Only you would take the time to learn the routine of a madman! I will tell you what his routine is. Anything that involves a very good dousing of whisky, followed by an opportunity to unleash his cruelty upon others. It is amazing that he and Trantham are even related. Amazing even more that you have not murdered the man in his sleep! Now, tell me more about this Mr. Rose, and why he would possibly wish to see you.”

The rest of our short, cold walk comprised my doing so. I told him all I could think of about Rose and MacDougal. I spoke of their poor welcome. Their insults. Their fury over my determination to stay here. Their abject hatred and jealousies of Hyde. I relayed my theories on the subject, and spoke of their probable upset over my being awarded a research cadaver. And all the while, we walked, the bases of our identical canes hitting against the pavement stones.

Sully laughed. “Good. This meeting is a personal vendetta of sorts. Those are always enjoyable and,” he said, pulling out his pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket, “we should be finished quickly and make it to the restaurant in due course.”

Rose was waiting in the cavernous main room of the Hall. I was pleased that MacDougal had not seen fit to come, or at least he was not willing to wait in the decidedly drafty space. The Hall was built nearly a century ago, and little has been done to increase either its welcome or its appeal (that could explain its lack of use). A long balcony overlooks the Hall's floor, circulating its upper perimeters and forming viewing galleries. There is a glass domed ceiling, which is long in need of a good cleaning. The glass is so encased with soot and grime that it does not allow the entrance of very much light. There has not been a change to gas lamps, so the wall sconces are torches. I felt grateful that they had been lit, and they spluttered a welcome as we hauled open the massive front doors.

The great fireplaces were cold. The floors were in dire need of polishing, and the upper galleries showed distinct cobwebs across their stone archways. The floor of the Hall was devoid of any furnishings, although I assumed that, had this been a proper meeting, there would have been some sent in and arranged properly. As it was, there was only Rose, standing with arms folded, foot tapping an impatient tattoo against the floor. Beside that foot sat an oversized medical reticule, open at the top, with several sheets of parchment sticking out.

His fury was magnificent. It mottled his pale face, causing him to clench his jaw. When he saw that I was not alone, as the note had requested, that fury increased tenfold.

Beside me, O'Sullivan laughed. The noise echoed through the cavernous room, bouncing off the empty upper galleries.

“Hello, Rose,” I said, when it became apparent that he did not intend to speak, and was content to glower. “I hope I have not kept you waiting. This is Mr. Patrick O'Sullivan. He and I have dinner plans, so, please, if you do not mind, I would like to be chastised now so that I might go on and have a nice roast and glass of wine.”

“Fish pie,” Sully replied. “Benge recommended I try that.”

“It is good,” I admitted. “Although I am fond of the roast beef and potatoes. That and the apple tart. Any pudding, really, is good there, but Benge would not know that because he hates all things sweet and—”

“And you were instructed to come alone!” Rose shouted, finally discovering his voice. “I was quite clear about that in my note, Purefoy. This is Doctoral business and is private! You were to come alone and explain to me how you dared award yourself a cadaver!”

“Shepherd's pie,” Sully said, snapping his fingers at the thought. “That was what Benge suggested. I thought it was fish, but I made a mistake.”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “He usually orders a slice of each. I think he is fond of both.”

“How can he not like pudding?” Sully asked, cutting his eyes over to the now spluttering Rose. Sully's smile deepened. “Must be the savage in him. No man in his right mind would refuse a good pud, when offered.”

“He does, though,” I said, ignoring Rose's loud demand that we listen to him. “Never ceases to amaze me.”

“I want you to explain yourself!” Rose bellowed, apparently surrendering his idea that this was private Doctoral business. “How dare you take a cadaver? You have no right! You have no link to the Crown! No special preference. There is a list, a protocol that must be followed, Purefoy, and—”

“You know what is good as well, Sully?” I interrupted, keeping my expression pleasant. “I have found their soup offerings to be spectacular. Cream of potato. Chicken and leek. I have heard rumor of turtle soup being offered, from time to time, but it has never been a selection on the nights I am there.”

“The trouble with a revolving menu,” Sully said, sighing loudly. “Difficult, when you have favorites, I would think. Tell me about the bread choices. Freshly baked, or am I to prepare myself for disappointment?”

“There is procedure that is being ignored!” Rose shouted. “I want you to make a formal apology for overstepping your boundaries. You are no more than an assistant, Purefoy, and one not even admitted or acknowledged by the Doctoral Council! It is a farce! A travesty! You have polluted the entire doctoral profession. You and your monstrous butcher hands! A complete embarrassment! I have already filed a report with the Court, complaining about the cadaver, and I have brought papers for you to read, demanding that you apologize at once. You will be fined. You must behave in adherence with the procedures, outlined by—”

“The breads are outstanding,” I interrupted, keeping my eye on Sully. For once, to my intense surprise, I could see a twinkle of mirth displayed within the depths of his hard, hard eyes. I realized then that he was enjoying himself immensely, and emboldened by the oddity of viewing his idea of true humor, I pressed on.

“They are freshly baked, as soft as if they were just pulled out of the oven. Magnificent offering. Such variety. Have you seen enough?” I asked, smiling at the sound of Sully's laughter.

“Oh, yes. This is far less interesting than I had hoped. Take me to this restaurant now, Purefoy, or else the evening is a complete disaster!”

And so, we left, turning our backs upon the still-shouting Rose. I will admit that I felt a deep sense of satisfaction in not explaining myself. I have never behaved in the manner expected of me by anyone in the Doctoral Council, and I wondered why they expected anything different this time. I am also well aware that as Hyde's personal apprentice, there is no requirement for me to explain myself to Rose. MacDougal, possibly, but certainly not his assistant.

“I only wish we had gotten a copy of whatever it was he filed against you,” Sully said later as we sat before a resplendent feast, all procured from those funny little windows. “Just for a good laugh. We should have Smithson file something terrible against him, although I think Rose has enough difficulty, being himself, day after day. He does not require additional trouble, possessing enough of his own already.”

A quick aside . . . In the company of O'Sullivan, I realized that the top windows are nearer the ceiling than I thought, and while I have no difficulty glimpsing their offerings, it was necessary for me to relay them to the shorter Sully. I had not previously noticed our discrepancy in height, and appreciated his cheer in suggesting that I either rattle off the offerings, or procure a chair for him to look his fill.

I had not considered this before, and realized that you would not be able to view the upper offerings with such ease. I hope this does not trouble you or make you unwilling to visit what has become my favorite restaurant. Please allow me to relay the upper rows, to procure whatever you desire. I do not wish you to be put off by this, and want you to love the place as much as I do. I would like nothing more than to describe the contents of the upper windows to you, as I did Sully, and hope this does not dampen any enthusiasm for such a wonderful menu.