The Curious Steambox Affair (3 page)

“I meant no offense, Mr. Purefoy,” MacDougal said quickly.

I laughed then. “Of course you do, sir. And I am to assume that you are including the other members of the Doctoral Council who refuse to answer my questions about Dr. Hyde. Those are the others who are in current doubt of my intelligence.”

“Ian Hyde is not favored by his fellow physicians,” MacDougal admitted. “And I am horrified by my statement, Mr. Purefoy. You must accept my apology.”

I am intelligent enough to understand that I was in conversational control at this point. I smiled, and glanced at my list of questions. They were useless now, and I closed the dossier and returned it to the reticule. But I did realize that he was at my questioning mercy.

“Allow me to assure myself that I understand this correctly,” I said. “I am hired as Dr. Hyde's assistant. I have yet to meet him. No one will answer even my most basic queries about him, or what my work here will entail. My own intelligence is questioned by accepting this posting, although it was advertised. I am to serve Hyde a constant dose of whisky, and his former assistant lasted only a mere two days.”

“His last five assistants,” MacDougal corrected. “Collectively they lasted, at most, two days. I mean no personal offense, sir. No man could stomach a post assigned with Hyde for long. If it is any comfort we believe you will take three days to resign, which is longer than the rest.”

I laughed again. “Well, that is a comfort. I believe he and I will get along quite well indeed.”

MacDougal opened his mouth, poised to respond, but we were interrupted by a swift opening of the office door. I would like to say that I was disappointed, but this meeting was proving unhelpful. I was of half a mind to refuse the posting entirely, and was debating the merits of remaining in what felt a hostile environment.

All such thoughts died away as the junior official, the one who had fetched me from the Air Station, burst into the room. My curiosity returned tenfold. I was still undecided if this was, in fact, a lunatic asylum. Such theatrics and subterfuge certainly pointed in that direction.

The official (and I apologize; I have completely forgotten his name, although he was just as nervous and unsure of himself as he had been during my escort to the Mitchell House) stood just across the threshold. He was breathless, exerted from a recent sprint. His eyes were as wide as saucers, as if he had just witnessed the paranormal repercussions of an unwanted séance.

“Dr. MacDougal!” the man cried. “Come quick! It is Hyde! He is in the Operating Theatre!”

I nearly crowed with triumph. At last, the elusive Hyde! I was beginning to feel I was reacquainted with a long-missing friend. Certainly, my mysteries were rapidly resolving themselves. Hyde was in the Theatre. All was right with the world.

My companions, however, felt differently.

“Hyde!” MacDougal echoed. “I thought he was not to be here until three.”

“He is here, sir,” the official confirmed.

“Horrendous.”

“Well,” I said, unwilling to spend a moment longer with either of them. I rose to my feet and picked up the medical reticule. “I suppose it would be best for me to retrieve my answers from the man himself. I might not be intelligent enough to understand the answers, but I am his hired assistant. Reporting for duty.”

“You had best take the bottle,” MacDougal intoned. I glanced at the assistant, and was dismayed that he nodded his agreement.

What sort of place was this? What a complete lack of respect!

“Fine,” I said simply, tucking the bottle beneath my arm. “Three days! What a ridiculous wager. No man can be that horrible.”

“You have yet to meet Hyde,” MacDougal replied. “Do not become comfortable at your lodging, sir. Chances are, you shall be returning to Inverness before too long.”

And so I found myself gratefully dismissed. And once more, ushered by the junior official, only this time to the Operating Theatre.

I find that I must stop here for now, Miss Campbell. My candle has burned itself to a mere nub, and I am aware that its wax is drifting toward this parchment. I am to set off into the night to procure more candles, as well as another quill. And perhaps a blanket or two, since the chill of the air above has seeped into my subterranean abode.

But be assured that I did, indeed, finally make acquaintance with the mysterious Dr. Hyde. And I will tell you more of it when I return to my desk. I also wish to know more of your day. How you spent the hours. Please tell me even the most mundane details. Such thoughts will cheer a poor physician's assistant, lost beneath the dark streets of a grim city . . .

Chapter Three

A new candle. A better quill.

Which returns me to Hyde.

You can imagine my surprise at finally seeing the man. I possessed the sense that I had finally reached the end of an extremely strange and tumultuous journey. The doctor did exist, contrary to popular sentiment.

And he did not, at first glance, appear to be monstrous.

I had a good vantage point to observe him quietly and without bother. No one cared about me, and for the moment I was forgotten entirely. I lingered in the doorway of the Operating Theatre, at the head of the staircase that led to the floor. I wished to be alone and untroubled. I wanted to see Hyde for myself, without the diluting opinions of my fellow doctors.

I was granted this wish, a fact that much pleased me.

There is little I love more than a good operating theatre, and Edinburgh's offering did not disappoint. It is one of the most beautiful I have ever seen. I suppose I should describe it a bit for you, since I know that your father did not practice in one.

However, I fervently wish that somehow, someday, you shall come to Edinburgh and see the room for yourself. My words provide a pale description of what truly is a splendid structure. I fear that it is simply something that must be seen with human eyes, rather than read about, but I will do my best to describe it accurately and hope that I capture some of its beauty on the page.

There are three levels of seating surrounding the operating floor, creating, I suppose, a macabre sort of opera house. This is probably the best comparison, and the easiest for imaginative purposes. The floor is the stage, where all of the experiments and surgeries comprise the theatrical productions. The first level of seating is the Stalls. Next is the Dress Circle. From my vantage point, I was in the doorway of the Upper Mezzanine.

The only true physical difference I can think of between an operating theatre and an opera house is that the galleries in the medical setting encircle the operating floor completely. Although, I suppose there are theatrical examples of such structures. At any rate, these viewing galleries surround the floor on all sides, making it possible to observe a physician from every angle as he works.

The seats were well-worn but obviously cared for. The aisles were heavily polished, I imagined by decades of effort to erase the scuffing of booted feet traipsing them. The sharp incline of the staircase was made safer by a heavy oak banister, which also showed the glow from years of use.

I spared a glance up. A stained-glass skylight in a geometrical design graced the top of the rotund, allowing a grey light to filter through its decorative glass. Gaslights shone from sconces along the wall, giving off sufficient glow to provide more than adequate light for the work below.

The Operating Theatre was austere and impressive, and made one wish to conduct important research and embark upon earth-shattering theories. This was the home of discovery, a hallowed space of learning. I felt a little breathless standing there, at the top of the staircase, and not even the presence of the mysterious Ian Hyde was enough to make me feel otherwise.

I also felt extremely unworthy and ill-prepared, my mind instantly scanning my sparse resume. Who was I to believe I was capable of such science? Of such greatness? Incredible things had been conducted within these hallowed walls. Great advances. Important work.

“Gentlemen,” Hyde said, his voice echoing through the Theatre with the impressive timbre of a true theatrical professional. “I will, of course, require an abject and complete silence, if I am to do this properly.”

Ian Hyde was not at all what I expected.

Through the passing days, I had created a mental image of the man. That image, fed, no doubt, by the appalling lack of knowledge that I had been granted. Most regarded him as having traits bordering on monstrous, and unfortunately my mental sketch of him was made all the worse by the responses of others. I suppose I had been expecting a cruel hunchback covered with bloodstains and dripping with venom. That idea amuses me now, as I sit before my desk and write to you, but one cannot help but form an expectation based on the bizarre opinions offered all around.

I am also aware that I read a great deal too much, and can be too fanciful sometimes in my imaginings, but it was still with an immense relief that I saw that Dr. Hyde possessed none of the monstrous qualities that I had mentally attributed to him.

He was tall, far taller than anyone else I had yet made acquaintance with here in Edinburgh. His height is natural; there is no evidence of added heel to his boots. I suppose that his height might be a source of derision among others. It did not seem to bother Hyde, who stood with perfect posture, untroubled.

He was also dressed expensively and well, his clothing obviously having been procured from a finer tailor than those frequented by the other physicians sitting in the galleries. He wore a heavily embroidered waistcoat, which was a direct contrast to the more usual, duller choices.

He had shrugged out of his coat, and tossed it in a negligent heap atop the lower railing of the operating floor. He had not hung it on one of the iron hooks embedded in the Theatre wall, as the others had. That lack of care with the obviously fine material was unexpected. It implied that, should the coat be ruined by his disregard, there could be more procured with great financial ease.

Things are often spilled in the viewing gallery, or worse, an experiment can go wrong at any moment. It is always best to store one's coat as far away from the floor as possible, lest you have your tailor bills increase tenfold.

Hyde was thin and gaunter than I expected. He did not have the expansive belly so common in the upper echelon of the Edinburgh Doctoral Council. Those men are well feted and well fed, and I had expected the same of Hyde. To see him, with his pronounced cheekbones and thin face, was a surprise. His features were sharp, save only for a nose that appeared to have been broken several times, and reset poorly. Faded blond hair was impeccably combed, and beneath the gaslight it reflected a dull golden color.

I had also expected an expression of impatient cruelty or a mocking sneer. Not so. Hyde's expression was guarded, but calm. I would describe it as a bored indifference, one lacking any real enthusiasm for malice or any other strong emotion.

He had pale eyes that I can only describe as the color of sea foam. (Again, forgive me. I read too many novels, and I have always wondered what color would represent sea foam. The idea struck me today, while staring down at Hyde, that his eyes were, in fact, not blue. They are not green. They are neither bright nor memorable, and if I had not previously pondered over the exact nature and description of sea foam, I should not have noticed them at all.)

So, the best words I can use to describe the mysterious Ian Hyde are these: jaded, faded, gaunt, bored, well-tailored, and sea foam.

I would not, under more normal conditions, regard him so closely, but circumstances demanded that I do so. If he had not been so mysterious, or so openly hated by others, I should not have paid him any particular attention.

There was a surgical arrangement on the floor. I could see a patient or cadaver on a medical table. Several low-lying tables displayed a vast amount of medical equipment, and an enviable number of gleaming tools.

All around me, throughout the galleries, I could hear the grumblings of Hyde's fellow physicians. I was acquainted enough with their hatred for the man to be aware of what they were saying. I was also aware that I was the only one remaining standing. Everyone else had taken his seat, and while they were speaking foully of Hyde, they were pointing and waving at me to sit down.

I had gaffed, obviously, and for some reason that pleased me.

Ignoring them, I decided that it was high time to take over my new tasks. I took the steps two at a time, descending toward the floor. I saw Hyde notice me, saw him frown. I also realized that his gaze had settled upon the bottle of whisky, still clutched beneath my arm. Paying no attention to the nervous swell from the crowd, I walked to the base of the stairs, and stepped down onto the floor.

“Dr. Hyde,” I said, my voice silencing the galleries. I set my reticule on the ground, and then, straightening, I held out the bottle. “I have this for you. And I must apologize for the distinct lack of introduction, sir. My name is Alistair Purefoy and I have been awarded the honor of working alongside you on your latest project.”

“I require no aid,” Hyde said succinctly, his voice lacking even a modicum of warmth. He did, however, take the offered bottle of whisky, and without requiring the civility of a glass, he took a hefty sip.

Strangely, a collective sigh of relief emanated from the spectators. I glanced around, confused, but all eyes were, apparently, focused on Hyde drinking.

Again, I must confess to you, Miss Campbell. I found myself struggling against inappropriate laughter. All of this was so strange, and certainly not dull.

Still trying to rein in my merriment, I shrugged out of my coat. I managed to drape it across the railing with the same style of disregard, although I normally take far better care with my possessions. I rolled my shirtsleeves up to mid-forearm. I did my best to not grin.

“Of course you do not require aid,” I said, when Hyde's gaze settled upon me. “That is why you are the physician, sir, and I am the assistant. Consider me an observer, if you wish.”

“Observers sit in the gallery,” Hyde muttered, then took another sip from the bottle's mouth.

“Those are hecklers, sir,” I said, throwing caution to the wind. “You can hardly call what they do observing.”

Something flashed briefly in those strange, light eyes. Something akin to humor, but it quickly dissipated.

“You are an Englishman,” Hyde said flatly. “I have no use for anything English.”

“Who does?” I replied.

I was aware, by now, of the buzz of protest drifting down from the galleries above. They were reacting to my insult; they were angry, and in all likelihood, they had every reason. I was a subordinate, and under normal circumstances, I would never speak so frankly or rudely as I just had. But, due to the vexing and strange reception I had received, it seemed useless to bother with politeness. Thus far, no one else had.

I took some humorous comfort in the knowledge that those around me believed me too dull and stupid to realize the import of my words. I gave my sleeves another roll, my lips twitching with barely suppressed laughter.

Hyde seemed to take exception at my grin and made a low, unpleasant snarl. “You have the hands of a forester,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “You do not have the hands of a proper surgeon.”

“A butcher, actually,” I said. I glanced down at my broad hands, at my large fingers. I shrugged. “Genetic trait. They have caused me no difficulties at my previous postings and do make it easier to get a good grip on things.”

“What is an English butcher doing in Edinburgh?” Hyde queried. He took another sip of whisky, the spirit causing a rich color to creep across his cheeks. “Are you lost?”

“I am beginning to feel that way,” I admitted. “But sometimes being lost is far more interesting than staying the course.”

Again, the flicker of humor. Hyde took a sip, regarding me down the length of the bottle. I think I surprised him by my frank replies. I surprised myself. I certainly surprised those observing.

I looked at the patient, a young man, stretched out on an examining table, his body covered by a thick white sheet. Not a cadaver. He was breathing shallowly, his eyes closed. I took a cautious sniff, trying to decide it camphor had been used, but then the man opened his eyes and smiled politely, as if we were meeting in a more normal circumstance.

At this point, I had become inured to the odd.

But what truly interested me was the small wooden box, set up on a table, just at the side of the patient's head. Several small brass tubes were connected from the top of the box to the bed itself, and I was aware of a humming and vibrating. There were various knobs and dials on the front of the box, which were turned at very precise angles. Intrigued, I took a step forward.

Could it be? My heartbeat quickened. I felt blood rush to my brain. Curiosity and excitement took hold of me. I could scarcely think straight. I stared.

“Touch nothing,” Hyde said briskly. “You will ruin what has taken me hours to arrange. Tell me what brings you to my operating floor.”

Yes! Only days after landing in this city of possibilities, I was staring at the impossible. The fantastic!

“I am your new assistant,” I replied. I found it impossible to look away from the wooden box. The tubes were shaking slightly, and as I watched, a great hiss of steam erupted from the top of the contraption. That noise caused a furor of conversation to fill the galleries, but Hyde silenced them all with a furious bellow.

“Assistant?” he shouted, his figure briefly masked by the steam cloud. “An English butcher? This is no hog, prepared for slaughter. No special cuts required. This is delicate work! The work of one's mind! You possess the hands of a hooligan. A hired assassin! You insult me by even standing on this hallowed floor, and—”

“I see that you have designed a Steambox,” I interrupted, still staring at it. I was relieved that my voice did not betray my very strong emotions. I was grateful I remained on my feet. “A fine specimen, sir, if you do not mind my compliment. Brass tubes,” I said, pointing to where the tubes were connected to the bedside. “Good for conducting both heat and cold. I assume you are using heat?” I said, and waving my hand over one of the tubes, I smiled as I felt the burning wave of heat emanating from within it. “None of these are cold?” I asked, waving my hand slowly over each connected tube. I could feel the scorching beams against my palm. “I would have expected a balance between chill and heat.”

“Cold is useless in my experiment today,” Hyde answered, his snarl lessening a tiny bit. “How does a butcher know of a Steambox?”