“Damned stupid,” Hyde interrupted, but he was smiling. When Miss Whitcomb gasped, he laughed again and then took a deep drink of wine.
“I am of a mind that it is not,” Mr. Whitcomb continued. He shot me an assessing look. “And it just might be brilliant. Your work in Edinburgh has kept you from conducting a proper courtship, and you have managed to make your letters memorable. How could she possibly accept another suitor, when you are writing of a life full of adventure and intrigue? Of murder?”
His own opinion of your current situation had changed so rapidly that my head spun. Could it be possible that you like my letters? That you find them brilliant? Memorable?
Hope springs eternal. In my heart, it was a veritable avalanche.
“I am sure it is just fine, Mr. Purefoy,” Miss Whitcomb said smoothly. She gave my hand another soft pat. “I believe she has written. Even airships are not timely. I feel in my heart that all is well, and you shall be hearing from your lady soon.”
“A gift would not be unwelcome,” Hyde said. “Something pleasant, Purefoy.”
“Gifts are always welcome in a courtship,” Miss Whitcomb replied pertly. Her gaze lingered briefly on Hyde, which caused his terrible grin to reappear. “Let me make a few suggestions to you, Mr. Purefoy, although I will not retract my very firm belief that all is well with your Miss Campbell. A nice book of poetry, perhaps . . .”
“He has her reading enough as it is,” Hyde said. “Surely his tale of murders and mayhem would make even the most romantic poetry acutely boring.”
“You could send her a bottle of wine,” Mr. Whitcomb said. “I have several bottles downstairs that might do the trick.”
“A deep red for blood,” Hyde retorted. “Why not finish with a gleaming set of knives?”
“You are horrible, sir,” Miss Whitcomb chided. Hyde grinned and raised his glass of wine in a jaunty salute.
“No, Mr. Purefoy, I will do better than that,” she said. “Allow me to select the gift. It would be my pleasure.”
I tried to argue that it was unnecessary, tried to convince her that she need not bother. It was all to no avail. Miss Whitcomb might be frail in body, but the iron of her personality is unyielding.
Once a decision is made, she is incapable of being swayed, and so a small box was delivered, this morning, to the Doctoral office and addressed to me.
You will find the selected gift attached to this letter, and although I cannot take credit for its selection, please know that it is sent with every fiber of my esteem. I hope that these chocolate truffles remind you that you are the only sweetness in my life. That if I have caused offense, it was unintentional. If you would be so kind as to continue our correspondence, then I shall endeavor to write within a more acceptable boundary. If you require a more conventional suitor, then please, be assured, I can be him.
It is this sort of behavior, this sort of kindness in the face of her own physical adversity, that has increased my efforts to help find a cure for whatever ails Miss Whitcomb. I asked Hyde, finally, if it was consumption he feared. He said (after a rather lengthy silence) that it was not, but that he was working through every possibility, studying and then eliminating each disease. He intends to find her cure based on a process of elimination, and that if he can master and learn the cures for a myriad of things, he may be able to unlock the secret of what would strengthen Miss Whitcomb.
And I judged him for his lack of romanticism! When, truly, he has dedicated his life’s work to her!
I made a decision this morning, and that was to go to whatever lengths I could to offer my assistance. I swallowed my pride and found Mr. Rose in the cloakroom of the Theatre. I told him that I knew that MacDougal had in his possession several medical texts that Hyde and I do not have. I asked if I might be permitted to borrow them, with the assurance that I would return them as swiftly as I could.
Rose’s reaction was as drastic as I expected, but I was willing to face his derision for the sake of the very ill Miss Whitcomb. He snidely refused, saying that MacDougal had spent years gathering the books from all across the globe, and that he would never allow someone as vile as a butcher to touch the sacred pages.
I managed to keep my temper in check (which is becoming more and more difficult in these trying days) and very calmly informed him that this was of the utmost importance, and that a lady was in dire need of treatment, and that the secrets of her healing might very well be contained within those pages.
Rose’s laughter was as awful as his next words. He informed me that no one, not even a lady, would benefit from those books, as long as it came as a request from a lowly butcher masquerading as a physician’s assistant. He loftily informed me that he and MacDougal were under no obligation to her, considering that she was not assigned as their patient, and therefore, she and her so-called ill health was of little concern to him.
Fury, bright and powerful, filled me. I found it almost impossible to not retaliate, but I knew that any hope for Miss Whitcomb relied in my keeping a level head. Instead, I did the impossible. I asked again.
“What? Hyde does not have the entire world at his fingertips? He does not control this? How very sad for Dr. Hyde, to find himself denied something. To not be handed his every wish on a silver platter!”
He went on for a bit, complaining bitterly about Hyde’s mysterious connection to the Crown. He was angry that, yet again, we had been granted the research cadaver. He implied, quite evilly, that it must be convenient for me to make lowly acquaintances that can so easily be put to good use in Hyde’s Operating Theatre.
It was that last horrific comment that made my decision for me. I scarcely remember what else the man said, something about the size of my hands again, but I recall little. Fury and outrage shifted easily into calm determination. I stiffly excused myself mid-tirade, and turning my back upon him, I returned to Hyde’s office.
My brother, Nigel (second eldest), is a man of many talents. Although he is deeply ensconced in the butchery business, he decided at an early age to acquaint himself with what he deemed the “useful skills” of a man. He ensured that all of us learned them as well, and so I possess talents and capabilities that are often associated with men from a far rougher crowd than I would ever befriend. I know how to fight like a non-gentleman. I am adept at cards. I can wield any sort of weapon, and can defend myself well from physical attack. The list of such odd talents is long and hardly worth mentioning at all, except for the one that I called into use this morning.
I am quite adept at picking locks.
Hyde was sitting at his desk when I came in. He watched as I picked up the necessary instruments from my worktable, as I unfolded the cloth wrapping of my set of butchering knives. He remained silent as I selected a dictionary from his bookshelf, but I could tell that his curiosity was piqued.
“I will return in a moment,” I said, and without waiting for reply, I went to MacDougal’s office.
I knew that the other physicians and their assistants were gone to the Theatre. Dr. Scott was giving a lecture on Anatomy, and it was suggested that everyone attend. Hyde and I, however, are accustomed to being personae non gratae and had decided not to go, and we knew that no one would miss our presence. The hallway was empty, and through the inset glass of MacDougal’s door, I could see that his office was empty as well.
Forgive me, Miss Campbell, but you must be assured that this drastic measure was necessary. Miss Whitcomb’s health lies in the balance, and if you are not too angry with me, I hope that you will understand that it is only for her well-being that I resorted to such a lowly tactic. I picked the lock, and moving swiftly to the bookshelves, I acquainted myself with the vast selection that the horrible MacDougal had gathered for himself.
All useless, unless put to a good use. What are words of healing, if they are not allowed to heal?
And so, I have decided to start m
y own borrowing system. I select only one book at a time, and put Hyde’s dictionary in its place. I am of the very firm belief that the books are meaningless to MacDougal, and are for show and bragging rights only. He will not notice a dictionary holding the place for the borrowed book. He will not see it make its way down the shelf, as I work my way through the texts.
I shut the door behind me, and returning to the office, I placed today’s offering in front of a visibly startled Hyde. His eyes widened. He set aside his glass of whisky and carefully opened its crackling pages.
“Alistair Purefoy,” he said after a long exhale. “You never cease to amaze.”
He reached for his stack of parchments and began to make copious notes as he devoured the text. Hours passed as we were lost in research, and it was not until after Hyde left for the night that I found the small note, shoved beneath the open books upon my worktable.
And so, I have to confess that the second included gift to you originates from Hyde. I unfolded the note, and I will relay its terse missive to you, because I simply fear that I would be unable to explain it any better than Hyde himself.
“Purefoy, this is for your Miss Campbell. I have given the matter much thought, as to
what gift would be best to help return you to her esteemed favor. I have, therefore,
arranged for her to sit for a miniature portrait at an Inverness studio, with the express
wish that she send said portrait your way. Perhaps if you carry her image in your
pocket, you will be reminded that ladies of this caliber do not wish to hear the horrors
of a physician’s daily life. The arrangements are made, and if you would, please convey
the address and appointment time to your lady, and also send a special request from me
that she forgive you. I cannot work alongside such a dreary personality, and I hold her
responsible for your unfortunate moods.”
And so, I have included that information. I sincerely hope that you will sit for the portrait. That you will smile. The idea of possessing such an image thrills me, and I know that such a glimpse of you will certainly rally me on even the dreariest of days. All postage costs, as usual, will be borne by me. All I need is your time. Your patience in the sitting. And of course, your forgiveness for my terrible conversational choices.
Regards.
Chapter Thirteen
October 18
MacGregor Boarding House
My dearest Miss Campbell,
Four letters arrived from you today! Four letters! You can imagine my delight in discovering them, waiting for me at the Air Station. I have made it a miserable ritual every morning, checking on my empty account box. I feared you hated me, that you never wished to hear from me again, and I can assure you that the past weeks have passed in abject misery.
But not today. Four letters! Most of them dated weeks ago! Immediately, I inquired as to what the delay had been about, but the steward, while apologetic, informed me that this sort of thing happens occasionally, due to air traffic, et cetera. Hardly an excuse, but the joy I felt at seeing the familiar script could not be dampened.
I hastened to the office and began reading. Relief, immense and overwhelming, encompassed me. You do not hate me. You do not mind my conversational choices. You insist upon them. And I am so relieved that Miss Whitcomb is correct . . . that you are truly made of stalwart stuff and all hesitation was postal only.
Your questions with regard to poor Mr. Beatie were astute and pointed. I smiled as I read your outrage at my desire to protect your sensibilities. Your determination to share a discussion frankly and honestly was relieving. How much I have regretted sending those letters, but to hear your demand for more details of the horrific news made me calm for the first time in days.
Miss Eugenia, you enchant me. How can you be real? How are you not a figment of my imagination? A beautiful lady who is in possession of a strong mind. One who wishes to be a confidante in all matters, no matter how terrible. You are fearless and brave, and you cannot know how much you please me.
I am so grateful that you are still here. That you are still with me. Losing you was like walking into a continual winter. There is such little joy here, such little happiness. The loss of you would have been terrible indeed.
I shall endeavor to answer your questions. Your horror and condolences over the loss of my friend were greatly appreciated. I do not know why his vocal chords were taken, nor his tongue, as I do not understand the reasoning behind the brutalities inflicted upon Mr. Banbury. I am of the mind, now that the initial horror has subsided somewhat, that it is merely the work of a madman. One cannot understand or decipher the inner workings of such a man’s mind. My friends were simply victims, and despite what Mr. Benge says to the contrary, I am a very firm believer that it is no more than a sick coincidence that the murderer struck in my vicinity.
I have given the matter much thought, and think that perhaps Mr. Beatie made an unfortunate acquaintance on one of his myriad drunken nights out on the town. The pubs and taverns he frequented were of ill repute. Mr. Stuart and I have discussed this possibility many times. Stuart is employed at a tavern of much higher quality, and he told me that the places Beatie frequented are full of the most dastardly and dire criminal elements. Beatie could have met the killer there, and that could have led to the eventual murder of Banbury.
The location of our subterranean accommodations provided an easy hunting ground in many ways, although the access is limited. I have kept in touch with Stuart, who assures me that no one else has been harmed. He has taken it upon himself to insist upon a more strict visiting policy, and now Mitchell refuses entry to anyone who is not in residence.
It is good to make such decisions, such conclusions. Horrors the like of which I have witnessed do not sit well within my mind, and the lack of resolution, I fear, might drive me mad. I am determined, now that I have moved to new quarters, to end my speculation on the subject in an attempt to preserve my own sanity. If I dwell on this pointless speculation, please, dear Miss Campbell, draw my attention to it in that gentle way you have and I shall attempt to cease again.
I have also spoken many times, on my Thursday evenings at the Whitcomb place, to Miss MacIntosh, who was hired as Miss Whitcomb’s personal maid, per my hesitant recommendation. It seems that my fears in that hiring were for naught; the girl has taken on famously with Miss Whitcomb, and manages to ease the poor lady’s burdens greatly. Miss MacIntosh has been quite conversational, and keeps me abreast of all the comings and goings at the Mitchell house. Her family (the horrid ones) still resides there but she herself has assumed residence at the Whitcomb place.
I am relieved that, out of the atrocious family, there is at least one who is pleasant and cheerful, and I am proud that my faith in the girl was not proven disastrous. Miss MacIntosh is very grateful for my recommendation and takes the time to visit with me, come every Thursday. She assures me that all is well at Mitchell’s, and that the fear and horror have subsided greatly.
I was pleased by your demands that I change boarding houses, and am glad to have complied. I have settled in quite nicely at MacGregor’s place, and I daresay it is far nicer than Mitchell’s could ever hope to be. My bedchamber’s window would be luxury enough, as is the additional space, but there is also a nice parlor that I often frequent. The food is indeed heartier, although I scarcely have time for more than breakfast. Most of my hours are spent at the office, but Mrs. MacGregor often keeps a plate of supper for me for when I return late at night.
My fellow boarders are a nice cluster of people. A few bachelors, like myself, but they are employed at more respectable work than my subterranean fellows. There is a hatter’s apprentice, a Mr. Robertson, who often has his breakfast at my table. He is polite and pleasant, as are the others I have met. Mr. Frey works as a clerk for a solicitor. Mr. Harris is
employed at a bank. And there are the families of course, and they are pleasant and quiet and go about their own business while I conduct mine.
Your additional demand that I forgo Edinburgh entirely and return to the Highlands was very pleasing as well. How I would like to! I was thrilled by the idea of your forcing your father out of his retirement, and imagined how good it would be, instead of posting a letter, to post myself home instead.
If only that were possible!
The fact that you wish me to return means more than I can convey, and yet I am determined to make a go of it here. I am saving back the majority of my wages. I am learning voraciously. I have a plan, my sweet E., and am determined to see it through. That plan involves you, and once I get my situation settled to my liking then you shall hear more of it.
Wait for me. Give me time to arrange things. Wait for me, my magnificent Miss Eugenia.
Your immediate concerns should have been addressed by my change in boarding locations. Rest assured, I am quite safe here. There is a lock on my door, so you must cease worrying. I am also very capable of protecting myself and my only hope is that you will not be so worried about me. . . . Although I am greatly pleased that you are.
I am scanning your letters again, ensuring myself that there is nothing I have missed. How good it is to read your words! I had truly despaired that I would never do so again.
I wish you were not so concerned by my lack of welcome here. I cannot stress enough that these people and their opinions in regard to me mean little. I am here to learn what I can, to forge a life for myself, one that you, hopefully, will find pleasing as well. What opinion those around me possess has little impact on my own goals, so truly, they do not trouble me.
You ask if it has gotten better with my fellow workers. This is difficult to answer. I cannot think that they have ever been pleasant or welcoming, and since the horrific murders, I think things have gotten worse. If you had told me, a month ago, that the lack of welcome could become more evident, I would have laughed, thinking it an impossibility. It has become more evident. There is a distinct chill to the air within the office proper, a tension that is present whenever I share space with either physician or assistant.
The Curious Steambox Affair Page 13