The Curious Steambox Affair

by Melissa Macgregor

  But I digress. . . .

  Our journey was blessedly over, and I found us deposited at a far nicer station than the one at which we boarded. I realized then that this was New Town, the more expensive and more recently constructed section of the city. There were potted ferns arranged in a quaint waiting area. The crowd was far less boisterous and was of a different class than those who peopled the Auld Toon stop. I had not yet had a chance to explore this area, but Hyde was walking swiftly again, so I could only observe my surroundings at his usual fast pace.

  And what surroundings they were! The streets were of nicer brick, far better maintained than those around my home. There are trees (trees!) planted alongside the pavements. Magnificent townhomes with private gardens, and my heart leapt at the sight of green vines climbing against wrought-iron fences. Such beauty! And the traffic is conducted at a far more civilized pace, providing the sense that one will not necessarily be run over and killed by a speeding carriage if one ventures too close to the street.

  Hyde seemed determined to make quick progress, and I hurried to follow. He brought me to the front of a stately town house, one with bright blue awnings shielding the lower windows. I scarcely had time to read the small brass plaque affixed to its front fence, when Hyde walked relentlessly to the front door.

  You know that I am the son of a butcher. My ways are simple. For all my love of learning and of science, I am still someone who spends his scant time of leisure in his own quarters or, like tonight, at a bookshop. I am not, and will probably never be, a true man of leisure, who spends his time conversing and meeting at his club. I cannot imagine being that idle, or that indolent.

  This was Hyde’s club. For some reason, he had brought me here. A club, the very definition of indolence! To imagine Hyde’s attendance at such a place made me smile.

  We entered through a wide front door and were greeted by a somberly dressed man who recognized Hyde. Our coats and hats were surrendered, and I did my best to not gawk at the fine, rich furnishings. It was appointed as lavishly as a grand home, with thick carpets covering the floor. The man ushered us forward, and I could hear, through the open doorway ahead, the muted tones of polite conversation.

  “Dr. Hyde,” the man said. “I will seat you and your friend with your brother.”

  “My brother!” Hyde ceased walking and gazed at the man with such unabashed horror that I stifled a laugh. “Good God. What is Simon doing here?”

  “This is his club as well,” the man said, his voice dripping with disapproval. “Please. Follow me.”

  Hyde’s brother, the elusive Mr. Trantham! I instantly thought of Mr. Whitcomb, who was desperate to make acquaintance. How disappointed would he be to know that I was to do so instead? And, if he did know, would he force me to make introductions for the sweet Miss Whitcomb? Poor Hyde if that should ever come to pass!

  For the first time in days, I could feel my good humor return. The absurdity that always followed Hyde like a miserable cloak always cheered me, and this was no exception.

  “It is not to be helped,” Hyde groused. “I am simply too hungry to leave without luncheon. God knows you are in need of a decent meal as well, butcher.”

  Simon Trantham was easy to recognize. There was a nice scattering of tables and overstuffed chairs, arranged pleasingly. An oversized fireplace that let off a blast of welcoming warmth. Gentlemen sat here and there, poring over newspapers or involved in muted conversation. A clink of glassware signaled luncheon’s being served, and several waiters moved between the tables, laden with trays or carrying bottles of wine. All in all, it was such a location of calm and rest and politeness that I believe I might have changed my opinion in the matter of gentlemen’s clubs. There is a fine line between absolute rest and indolence. This resembled rest, albeit a stately one.

  But I return my written conversation to Mr. Trantham, Hyde’s brother.

  He was seated at what must be one of the better locations, at a table close to the fire. Before him was an open newspaper, and that seemed to hold his attention. He ignored the waiter who poured him a fresh glass of red wine. He paid no attention to the plate of roast beef set at his elbow. The rest of his table was empty, although there were five other seats, but he appeared disinclined to welcome others to join him.

  It was this personality trait that initially informed me that he was kin to Hyde. Something about the set of his shoulders gave off the warning that he would not take kindly to being disturbed. His expression was ferociously serious as he read, his harshly aristocratic features set in precisely the same scowl I have so often witnessed in his brother.

  And then, there was the dull blond hair. The long, bony fingers that turned the newspaper page. A pair of gold-rimmed spectacles shielded his eyes, but I felt sure that, given a good glimpse of him, I would be able to see the strange, sea foam color of his vision.

  He looked up as we approached, his expression turning guarded. Those queerly colored eyes blinked, as if he were returning from a reading fog. He recovered, and rising to his feet, he called out such a cheerful greeting that I immediately hesitated to think him related to Hyde.

  “So, you are the latest victim unlucky enough to be assigned to my brother,” Trantham said, once introductions had been made. The three of us sat. Wine was poured. Luncheon ordered. “I feel sorry for you, you know,” Trantham continued. “It is not many who can abide my brother’s moods at such close proximity.”

  “It is not the day for jesting,” Hyde said, taking a sip from his glass. “Purefoy here discovered a murder last night.”

  “Did he, indeed?” Trantham said. His gaze turned sharp as he regarded me. “I have just read about it in the paper.”

  “Well, he saw it for himself,” Hyde snapped. “I hardly think he needs to hear the pathetic report.”

  “I should like to hear it from you,” Trantham continued, oblivious to Hyde’s scowl. “That is, if you do not mind. I have already been disgusted by the poor reporting, and the fact that the police are not following up is—”

  “He knew him,” Hyde interrupted. “Beatie was a fellow boarder, a neighbor.”

  “Good God,” Trantham exhaled. “Well, then, I am sorry. How terrible for you! Forgive me my insensitivity, please.”

  “No offense,” I managed, stopping Hyde before he could say anything else. “I am relieved that you, too, are offended by the mishandling of the case.”

  “It is beyond mishandling,” Trantham said quickly. “It is shameful.”

  It was easy to talk once luncheon arrived, a fantastic roast and Yorkshire pudding. The wine, as usual, served to soften Hyde’s mood, and he filled in and expanded details, here and there, as I retold my story. Trantham’s questions were just as astute and well-formed as Hyde’s had been, and again, I was struck by the immense weight that was lifted off my shoulders, the more I spoke of the horrors I had seen. These two men did not have the response of Wallace and MacKay. There was no merriment, no making light of a life ended so violently.

  I have discovered that discussion itself leads me back inevitably to my ever-present curiosity. As I spoke, I found myself wondering the source of interest for Mr. Trantham. Was this his own curiosity at work? A gentleman, sitting amid the splendor of his private club, bored with his usual amusements? A macabre entertainment, an expansion of an intriguing article briefly glimpsed in his papers? Was I serving as storyteller to a bored nobleman? Was I cast as a jester of sorts, brought to entertain with tales of the trials and tribulations of the coal-soaked lower class?

  Or was his interest more gruesome in nature? What was his motivation for learning such details? Was he an active participant in the event itself (I shuddered to think), or was I simply suffering from acute paranoia?

  I decided to momentarily stifle such terrible thoughts. There should be plenty of time to ponder any nuances, once I returned to the questionable sanctuary o
f my abode. I continued to speak, deciding that I had nothing to hide from either man, whatever his true purpose.

  Once more, I told details of the boarders, of the people who fill the rooms at the Mitchell place. Trantham was particularly interested in who has access to my lower floor, and was horrified by the vast number. He wanted to know more about the police assigned, and his dislike of their procedures rivaled my own.

  Both Hyde and his brother asked details of Beatie himself, how he was arranged, if I noticed anything in particular, beyond the initial gore. We kept our voices low, the conversation private. I appreciated this, not wanting to be considered the sort who likes to announce bad news. I truly wish to never speak of it again.

  Trantham insisted that I eat, and that my wineglass be refilled regularly, and I must confess I cannot remember the last time I was so adequately fed. The two Thursday evenings spent at the Whitcombs’ were close contenders, but Hyde and Trantham kept on ordering me another helping, ignoring my protests that this was unnecessary.

  I did feel strengthened, however. And warm, warm for the first time in days!

  “I have people who can look into this,” Trantham said, once we were finished feasting. “People who would like to.”

  Relief, I will admit, was overwhelming. What sort of murderer or accomplice would suggest that? I immediately regretted my horrible curiosity, my quiet maligning of his character.

  “I am simply glad that a man’s death, even an insignificant man, matters to some,” I said.

  “The deaths of all men matter,” Trantham replied. “In many ways, the insignificant man matters more. Especially when it comes to murder.”

  My faith in humanity, in Edinburgh, was restored!

  I am tired, my sweet girl, and so I am ending this letter. I am to return to the underworld tonight, to my home beneath the Earth. I am packaging up the books. I will attach the letter. And I will, in all likelihood, reread your missive a few more times before I retire for the night. And then on to chapter three of Cooper’s book. . . .

  Regards.

  Chapter Nine

  September 26

  Mitchell Boarding House

  Dear Miss Campbell,

  What a strange few days this has been!

  After everything I have been through, all I have suffered, you might imagine my surprise upon discovering that our requested cadaver had been delivered to the Operating Theatre. As per form, the next available one was to be granted to Hyde and myself.

  I had not expected to see Mr. Beatie again, but there he was, arranged beneath the shroud, and lying in wait upon the medical table. Mr. Beatie.

  I realize that it should not have been a shock to me, but it was. I had forgotten entirely that Hyde had requested a cadaver. Frankly, if I had remembered at all, I would never have assumed it would be Beatie! What are the odds? How absurd, how completely and utterly implausible in a city this large!

  But there he was. Waiting for me in the Theatre.

  I received notice of his arrival upon entering the office, early this morning. The message was terse, without identification of the cadaver proper, but that was to be expected, considering the hubbub and controversy that already surrounded our awarding. I hurriedly completed my morning tasks, and then, leaving a note on Hyde’s desk for him to meet me in the Theatre, I went there myself.

  A crowd awaited me in the galleries, which was, again, no surprise. I was fully aware of the immense upset over our possession of said cadaver. The seats were filled with both physicians and assistants. I could hear the angry murmur of conversation when I entered the floor.

  It increased in volume when my arrival became noticed. There was no masking the outrage. I do not instill the fear that Hyde invokes, so their low opinion of me was bestowed loudly and without hesitation. I heard the snicker of Mr. Rose as I approached the still-shrouded form. I heard MacDougal comment on anticipating the damage my “monstrous butcher hands” could inflict upon a dead body, much less a live patient.

  Laughter. Jeers. Shouts of anger over our favoritism by the Crown. I ignored it all and kept my mind occupied with the happy thoughts of the impending arrival of your father’s tools and such. You have no idea how well-appointed I will be with those instruments! How proud I shall be to carry them in my reticule!

  Still ignoring the crowd, I busied myself around the operating floor. Several tables had been brought in, but Hyde had not yet set out any instruments or left notes on what we would be doing. With such a raucous audience around me, I was unwilling to show my lack of knowledge, so I made sure to appear confident. I walked to the body, and pulling back the shroud . . .

  I will, however, give even the horrible audience credit here. Silence, deep and heavy, descended as I stared down at the familiar face. The quiet was so sudden, and yet I knew that even if the shouting had remained, I would possess no sense of it.

  His wounds, and there were many, had been sewn up. All blood had been washed away. Someone had managed to relax the horror of his expression, although my thoughts were still imprinted with what I had seen, days before. It was undoubtedly Beatie. I struggled to take a full breath, my fingers grasping the shroud so tightly that my knuckles whitened.

  It was then that I saw the Indian.

  He must have come down from the galleries, stepping onto the floor with silent tread, while I was still gaping at the body. Looking away from Beatie, I stared at this new figure, believing that my eyes were betraying me. The embodiment of everything Mohican met my gaze unwavering. I must confess that at this point, at this moment, I truly believed myself mad.

  What was an Indian doing in my Operating Theatre? In Edinburgh, Scotland?

  Had I read too much? Had the grief and shock made me a candidate for Bedlam?

  His ancestry was unmistakable. He was tall and dark-skinned. His features were proud, with a hawkish nose and clearly defined cheekbones. Dark, glittering eyes met mine. The mouth was kept closed, his expression one of bored neutrality. His hair (oh, his hair!) was long, so long in fact that as he walked it shifted well past his shoulders. It was as black as midnight, as black as a raven, pulled away from his temples by two braids. The gaslight gleamed on small silver feathers, woven through the braided strands.

  It seems strange—and I hope it correct—to refer to him as an Indian. Years ago, while still in London, I made acquaintance with a man from Calcutta, who referred to himself as an Indian, and yet there is a complete dissimilarity between these two that must be noted. Completely different ancestry, different builds and posture, different histories. For now, until I know this man’s tribe or a better term to describe him, I shall say Indian, although it is mind-boggling to use the same term of description as I would for my friend from Calcutta.

  Although this Indian was dressed as an Englishman, or Scotsman, there were still glaring hints of the savage in his attire. No loincloth, thank God! He was clad in trousers and shirt and boots. No coat. No cravat. No hat or gloves. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled well up his forearms, giving a view of primitive, tribal tattooing covering both arms. Several thin gold bracelets clinked against his wrists.

  He walked with a fluid grace that I have only read about, and it was easy to imagine him walking through a thickly wooded forest. His stride reminded me of a deer, and I fully expected him, at any moment, to turn his head and listen to some unseen sound, hidden behind nonexistent trees. Although his feet were clad in a gleaming pair of Hessians, his steps made absolutely no sound. His walk was chilling in its silence, and his sleekly muscular build made it apparent that if he were tracking a man, then this was a specimen perfectly capable of killing his quarry before it realized his approach.

  Killing. I actually thought that, while standing alongside one so recently murdered.

  My audience was enraptured with curiosity and fear. A look at Mr. Rose assured me that this stra
nger, this Indian, had been among the topics being discussed as I entered the floor, but I was too caught up in my own selfish thoughts to think there was any other issue at hand. I could see unmitigated terror on the faces remaining in the gallery. That, and an awestruck wonderment at seeing such a creature moving among us.

  “You must be Mr. Purefoy,” the Indian said, his voice deep and allowing hints of an accent. “I was told to expect you.”

  Expect me? In my own Theatre? I was too bemused to provide argument, or to demand he introduce and explain himself. I felt mesmerized by his presence, having just so recently been immersed in the beginnings of Cooper’s novel, and conversation absolutely failed me. I had a hundred questions I wished to ask him, about America, about his tribe, about his life, but I found myself unable to form anything close to coherent words.

  For once, I was saved by the arrival of Hyde.

  He emerged onto the operating floor in his usual pique, fury rolling off him like ocean waves. In a booming voice (which managed to snap me back into reality), he demanded that the galleries be cleared. There was to be no viewing, no observation of his research today, and if his demands were not met at once, then there would be unmitigated trouble. The galleries were to be emptied. Immediately.

  With the exception of me, and the Indian, who I later learned was named (fantastically) Dog Benge.

  That is the first time I have written down the man’s name, and I cannot cease reading it, over and over! What a fantastic moniker! I cannot help but wonder if there are more pieces of his name, perhaps Rabid Dog, or Angry Dog, or even Dog Howls At The Moon. At first I thought that perhaps Hyde was being rude in calling him that at all, but the Indian took no offense.

  The galleries cleared, as expected. I cannot help but notice that everyone does as Hyde demands, which inevitably is a contributor to the mass hatred against the man. I have observed that the physicians love to hate Hyde behind his back, but when faced with him, they expose their own cowardice. None of them has good reason to hate him (aside from his dark personality), so they cannot stand against him, face-to-face. Theirs is the hatred of jealousy, of undefined dislike, and they enjoy being rude when he is not standing before them.