The Curious Steambox Affair

by Melissa Macgregor

  For lack of anything better to do, I sheathed the magnificent knife, then slipped it into my coat pocket. Benge nodded his approval.

  “Well, I am glad to see you armed,” Trantham said drily. “But I intended for that to happen in a more normal process. You were to come tonight as my guest. To a party. This,” he said, tapping a long forefinger against the table and staring at Sully, “this is ostentatious.”

  “It is what it is,” Sully replied cheerfully. “Champagne, Simon. I think our new friend deserves another drink.”

  I had yet to finish the flute of champagne, but that did not stop any of them from procuring me a fresh glass. I was also given a very large plate of food, which was set on the table before me. The sight of it made me realize how hungry I was, how little I had eaten. They glanced at me, saw my hesitation, and then all three began to fill plates of their own.

  It seemed a strange location for a meal, surrounded by an arsenal, but the food was sublime. Soft tarts, filled with cream! A selection of dainty sandwiches. Shortbread fingers (which paled in comparison to yours), amid several chocolate-filled pastries. There were slices of cold cuts and pickles, and such a vast array that it was difficult to not overindulge.

  The champagne was delicious and did wonders to ease my anxieties at being found in yet another odd and even mysterious situation. A good meal can help keep concern at bay, or so I have realized. The silence was companionable, and they seemed as appreciative of the food and drink as I felt.

  “She is looking for you,” Trantham said quietly, and I realized that he was speaking to Dog Benge.

  “Is she?” Benge queried with another enigmatic shrug. He did, however, down the last of his champagne, and dusting his hands together, he took a step away from the table.

  “I would suggest you proceed cautiously,” Trantham murmured. “That would be best, considering.”

  Benge ignored him, and neither Sully nor Trantham seemed interested in further explanation. Although my curiosity was certainly piqued, it would have been rude to inquire further. Instead, I remained quiet as Benge opened the library door and disappeared beyond.

  “Idiot,” Trantham muttered, once the door was shut. He took a deep draught of champagne, which seemed to cause his tense expression to clear.

  “Mr. Purefoy, please, you must accept my apologies about such an odd reception to my home. I intended for you to enjoy yourself, and to not be troubled with any of this.”

  “I actually am enjoying myself,” I said honestly. “Although I cannot pretend to understand anything. I do think that I have gotten quite adept at confusion.”

  Miss Campbell, on this I must be very clear. I have already admitted to a great appreciation of all things, with regard to weaponry. To pretend otherwise would be a lie, and as I have said, I rarely lie. However, it would also be a lie to pretend that this entire reception was not worrisome. The murders are never far from my thoughts, both those of my subterranean friends, and those I have seen advertised. The fact that these men, these Gentlemen, were concerned over my adequate protection was hardly comforting. I hoped the smile on my face remained pleasant, even though my thoughts were anything but.

  “Oh, I like him,” Sully said, his gaze finally twinkling with humor. “Trantham, you were correct. This one is an asset. Here,” he said, and picked up a small pistol. “Perhaps you should have this as well. Benge told me that you are a knife man, but I have never underestimated the power of a well-placed shot. Give it a grasp,” he said, pressing it into my hand. “See what you think.”

  It was an undeniably beautiful pistol with an intricately carved ivory handle, which fit into my hand to perfection. It shone beneath the lamplight as I turned it carefully to and fro. My murmured appreciation caused Sully to beam happily.

  “Take it. It is yours. A gift from one aficionado to another,” he said.

  “I would have gone with the dirk,” Trantham added. He picked up a slim Scottish-made blade, and at Sully’s nod, he handed it to me. “Good for your inner coat pocket, and lethal when needed.”

  “Another knife man,” Sully said, sighing. “Cannot be helped, I suppose. You are what you are.”

  “Will someone please tell me what is going on?” I managed, finding it necessary to finally ask. “Why have I been brought here? Why am I being equipped for battle?”

  Sully’s laughter echoed through the library. “Correct me if I am wrong, Purefoy, but you were recently threatened by a murderer.”

  “I was not threatened by him,” I argued. “Two of my friends were killed.”

  “And subsequently, you were threatened,” Sully pressed. “Do you truly think that a change of address can thwart a madman? Our vigilance alone cannot protect you, so we thought it best if you had some things on hand. Some weapons.”

  “Hyde has given me a pistol,” I said. “And I have my butchery knives.”

  “And no doubt you could utilize both, given the unfortunate opportunity,” Sully said soothingly. “But we wish the best for you, Mr. Purefoy, so we have decided to equip you properly. Is there anything else you require? Fill your pockets, sir, and I have a few sheaths that can hide weapons beneath your coat. We shall see to the provision of boxes of bullets.”

  “We like you,” Trantham said, refilling all three of our champagne flutes. “And we never like anyone, Mr. Purefoy. I suggest that you take advantage of that.”

  “Smithson wished for you to have this,” Sully said, his hands lifting a beautifully carved mahogany cane. A pearly orb decorated the top, and as I watched, Sully twisted it with a deft turn of his wrist. Silently, a long blade was extracted from the middle of the cane, the orb serving as an odd hilt. He slid it back into the protective wood covering, and twisting the orb once more, he secured it.

  I was silent as he handed it to me. I had seen an identical cane in the possession of Benge. To think there was a weapon hidden within! And I was to have one now as well? Already, my coat pockets bulged with the Indian’s knife. The pistol. The dirk. And now this?

  The excitement of possessing such treasures filled me, as did my lingering concern that they felt the need for such provisions. Why were they taking such interest in me? What had gotten me here, beneath the Gentlemen’s magnifying glare? My connection with Hyde, brother to Simon Trantham? My growing kinship with Dog Benge? Could I trust such friendships being offered?

  “Have another pastry, Mr. Purefoy,” Trantham said. “And remove your coat, sir, if you do not mind.”

  I did mind, and said as much, but my protests fell on deaf ears. I found myself coatless, and soon, a leather harness was secured over my shoulders, resting against my back. Several knives were attached, as was a set of strange iron stars. In response to my arguments, Trantham himself removed his coat, and I could see that he, too, wore the same sort of contraption, fitted with such a vast array of knives that I wondered how he walked properly at all.

  “We all have them,” Sully said as he fastened on yet another set of blades. “Of course, the Venetian has more, but then he would.”

  “Who are we?” I asked, but the answer did not surprise me.

  “The Gentlemen.”

  “And what do we do?”

  “We stay alive,” Sully said with another deep chuckle. He finished outfitting the harness to his liking, taking the pistol out of my coat pocket and affixing it against my side. He then waited while Trantham inspected his handiwork. Once Trantham had given his approval, my coat was returned to me.

  We stay alive. The words echoed through my head. I struggled to take a full breath.

  I was stunned that such a vast arsenal could be so easily hidden beneath my coat. Nothing showed, although I felt as if I had gained several pounds in girth. I turned to and fro, determined to catch a glimpse of anything, but it was all affixed so well that it was completely invisible to others.

  “
I do wish you would stop worrying, Purefoy,” Sully said. “Worry and agitation is Trantham’s department. If there is a concern, believe me, he will alert you to it immediately.”

  “Hyde,” I said finally, after straightening my lapels for the umpteenth time. “I should very much like to see Hyde now.”

  It was true, and for the first time since meeting the man, I found myself very much wishing to see him. For all of his sourness, all of his dark moods and foul temper, Ian Hyde has become the one thing in this odd world that I am able to understand. Nothing about Dog Benge makes sense. Simon Trantham is polite and conciliatory, and yet he refuses to answer even my most basic questions. Patrick O’Sullivan is friendly, but he is seemingly intent upon covering me in weaponry that I neither understand nor desire.

  None of them, although gracious, is interested in answering my questions. In explaining themselves. In fact, any time I am around any of them, I find myself more and more confused. I do not know what they find so fascinating about me, why they have taken it upon themselves to offer protection (which I simply do not need). I was invited to their party and given weapons?

  I missed Hyde. Hyde is predictable. Perhaps I have been in Edinburgh too long to remember normal, polite society, but Hyde makes sense to me. The Gentlemen do not, and I would far prefer to spend an hour in quiet, cantankerous research alongside Hyde than moments sipping champagne and studying weapons with any of the so-called Gentlemen.

  Simply put, I have been able to learn Hyde’s routine. His definitive quirks and dislikes. Hyde does not bother to mask his ill opinion or hatred behind pretty social manners and niceties. I find that I have begun to enjoy that sort of brutal honesty.

  The Gentlemen are dangerous in their kindness. I cannot read their intentions. Their purposes.

  “Oh, who would wish to see him?” Sully asked, his laughter filling the room. “Poor Purefoy. Having to work alongside the Beast. I do pity you on that, you know.”

  “My brother,” Trantham said, sighing expansively. “Well, I suppose you should. In all likelihood, he would make it unpleasant at the office, should you ignore him. He is in the garden,” he said, pointing toward the window I had earlier admired.

  “Keeping watch over his precious trees,” Sully continued, still chuckling. “God forbid anyone seeks a bit of romance amid the flowers. Hyde will not hesitate to shoot, should someone wish for a little garden privacy with a lady.” His grin faded a little. “Best to call out to him and let him know you are there. I would hate to have you hurt, before we can start the training.”

  “Training?” I asked, feeling the return of confusion. As usual, both Sully and Trantham ignored me. I found a bottle of whisky pressed into one hand. Into the other, the cane. The two of them ushered me toward the window, and I saw that there was a short glass-paned door, set just to the side. A heavy brocade curtain had been pulled away, providing me a glimpse once more of an intense greenery beyond.

  I concentrated on walking properly, the weapons feeling strange against my back and sides. My discomfort caused both of them to laugh, although it sounded good-natured.

  “Come and find me later,” Sully said. “This is a night for dancing, Purefoy. For music! For ladies! Do not let Hyde ruin a perfectly decent party.”

  “I apologize in advance for my brother,” Trantham said. He held open the glass door, and leaning into what was obviously a very large greenhouse, he released such a loud whistle that I fairly jumped in surprise.

  “Ian!” he shouted. “Ian! Mr. Purefoy is here, so do not shoot him!”

  “Come find us in the ballroom, Purefoy,” Sully said. He gave me a friendly push upon the back, making me step into the greenhouse. The door shut behind me, and I had the queerest sensation that they considered me a gladiator, tossed into an arena with an awaiting lion.

  I could hear the lion, Hyde, call out a terse greeting in the gloom.

  And then I realized that I was standing in the middle of a rain forest.

  Forgive me for being fanciful again, my sweet Miss Eugenia, but I have read several accounts of rain forests, and the sight that greeted my eyes was very much like those descriptions. The glasshouse was giant in proportions, and I know now that it takes up a section of back lawn from both Trantham and Hyde’s properties. The tall, arched ceiling allowed for the planting of trees (so many of them!) as well as a vast array of strange green plants that I longed to study.

  I suppose I should begin with the intense heat that surrounded me. It was definitely hotter than the library, although I did not see any fireplaces. There was a dampness to the air that felt humid. I looked down and saw that I was standing on a gently curved bricked pavement, which wove its way along the base of the shockingly tall trees.

  I could hear water gently running. I could hear birds twittering.

  I felt unable to move. This, finally, was too much. How was this possible? I stared up at palm trees. There was a banana tree. Coconuts. If a monkey had dropped down upon me, suspended by green vine, I would not have been surprised in the slightest.

  “Well, do not linger, Purefoy,” came the familiar voice. “You know I always hate it when you stare like an open-mouthed child.”

  Light flickered, and then I could see him. Hyde was sitting on a folding military-style wooden seat, at the base of a palm tree. As I walked forward along the path, I could see him better, sitting with his foot resting against his knee. A large gun was propped up in his lap, and I knew then that Sully had not been jesting about his standing guard over unwanted guests.

  There was another wooden seat empty beside him. I had the sense that Hyde had been expecting me, that he had known that I would find the party confusing and odd and would rather sit with him amid the unexpected trees and flora. Several small gas lamps had been set up, casting a cheerful, if jungle, glow.

  Hyde saw the bottle of whisky in my hand and smiled. And then he saw my strange gait, my awkward attempt at walking, and before he could say something rude, I informed him of what had just transpired in the library.

  “You will be lucky if you do not take your own arm off while walking,” he said. “Or give away the presence of an arsenal, just by your guilty expression.”

  “I only wish that something would make sense for once,” I said with a sigh, sitting awkwardly on the chair beside his. I handed him the bottle, which, as expected, he took.

  “Sense?” he asked. He poured a hefty dose of whisky into a glass (he already had one, as well as an empty wine bottle, both of which had been residing at his feet). “Why wish for sense, Purefoy? Seems to me that you are doing fine enough as it is while understanding nothing. Perhaps if you comprehended, you would not be doing as well as you are.”

  My first compliment from Hyde. Strange and confusing, but still a compliment. I smiled.

  “I see that you are assuming the role of chaperone tonight,” I said, nodding toward the gun. “No young lady needs to be worried about an unwanted romance in the garden.”

  “This is a sacred space,” Hyde said, sounding so much like Dog Benge that I almost laughed. “I have no intention of letting some rake use it as a playground.”

  He poured some whisky into another glass and gave it to me. I knew better than to refuse.

  The silence of the forest (forgive me, but I think of it as such) surrounded us. I felt myself return to calm, and began to take appreciative stock of my definitely strange surroundings. I could see that a small brook had been constructed to meander through the rich foliage. I could see great bursts of flowers, planted here and there.

  I would like to say that I learned the reasoning behind the forest. I wish I knew what made it tropical in both look and temperature. I wish I could say that I explored, that I knew not only the names of the plants and trees and flowers planted but knew the methods in which they were so beautifully maintained.

  But this was Hyde, an
d I knew his routine. His intolerance for chatter. I asked no questions, and so we simply sat and listened to the sounds of the surrounding forest. We could hear the music of the orchestra, too, and waltz after waltz was called. I cannot think of a better location to hear such music, and the fact that I was able to look up and see snowflakes falling against the greenhouse panes was fairylike and not quite real.

  I wished then (as I do now) that you had been there alongside me. You would have liked it, and I most certainly would have enjoyed your being there.

  Hyde did tell me that I should become more acquainted with the weapons and their odd harness, so I am committed to wearing it beneath my coat. I have procured a cloak for myself, just so that I can at least pretend that there is more coverage, even though the coat does a perfect masking.

  I can only hope I can walk while maintaining a calm expression. And what about the training? I admit a fascination with that idea, and have decided that, should the Gentlemen wish to conduct weapon training, then I would be happy to oblige. I thought of my brother, of Nigel, and knew that he would think poorly of me for not acquiring what he would determine another “useful skill.”

  And so, I am finishing this monstrously long letter. The weapons are on, hidden beneath my coat and new cloak. I am planning on a long afternoon and evening spent at the office. I am heavily involved in the General Surgery texts, doing all that I can to ensure that, should the time come, I am prepared to test my knowledge. To become a physician!

  The hope is too great.

  Regards.

  Chapter Sixteen

  October 24

  Dear Miss Campbell,

  Beloved girl, it has happened again.

  Mr. Robertson has been murdered. He was found dead early this morning in his room. At my boarding house.

  I feel as if I can barely breathe. The shock of this, the impossible horror, has finally overwhelmed me. I scarcely know where to begin.

  And, in many ways, Robertson’s death was only the beginning of my trauma.