I was awakened early this morning, far earlier than even I normally rise, by the sound of a very loud scream echoing through the hallway. Instantly, I was out of bed, shrugging into my clothes. I did not hesitate to put on the weapon-filled holster (and how glad I am that I did so!), hiding it as usual beneath my coat. Ian Hyde’s pistol, the one he had given me for protection, fit naturally into my pocket. I reached the door. The chaotic hallway was so familiar, so terrible with its screams and frantic energies, that I knew, I knew that something terrible had happened once again.
The door to Robertson’s room was two away from mine own. It was open. The gathering crowd of boarders was rushing toward it, and I could tell by the shouts and cries that his room was the source of the horror.
Robertson! The kindly man who shared my breakfast, time and time again. How could this be possible?
I felt dazed as I made my way through the hallway, pushing past the scarcely familiar faces. I have not been here very long, and save for Robertson, have yet to make a friend. I shouted that I was a physician’s assistant, and that I was here to render any aid, if necessary.
I already knew the answer before I crossed the threshold. I knew it before I saw the blood covering the walls. There was to be no aid. Robertson was dead.
Instantly, my mind clicked into place. I recalled Hyde’s procedure. I assumed many of his mannerisms, shouting for unnecessary people to leave the scene immediately. I insisted that the body not be disturbed. When Mr. MacGregor informed me that the police were on their way, I heard myself bellow, “Well, then God help us all from their sheer incompetence!”
I insisted that Hyde be sent for, and was amazed that my snarl seemed to garner a quick response. One of the young footmen assured me that he would send out the message. I then turned my attention to the disaster that lay before me.
I am trusting your wish for details. Suffice it to say, I will endeavor to keep it brief. There were incisions all over his body, clearly the work of a blade. Some sort of knife. The arrangement was the same as it had been with both Beatie and Banbury. No apparent robbery. Nothing taken, save the gruesome trophy that this killer so obviously insisted upon.
Robertson’s legs had been brutally removed, the jagged incisions made just below the knees. They were gone.
Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me. My sweet Eugenia, not even you, my brave lass, need to know such things. Again, I have covered the nature of his injuries with candle wax. I would prefer that you leave it alone. Do not read the words, lest you suffer the same terror I felt. Suffice it to know that it was horrible. That he died viciously. This is clearly the work of a madman, one who is diabolical and evil.
How I have regretted telling you of the brutal sketches of the advert, the search for the torso! My only consolation was that the bulletin was in public, out for all and sundry to see. Still, to write such details of a person with whom I claim acquaintance! I cannot! And so, I utilize the wax, and hope desperately that you will leave those words covered.
My tale shifts now to the police.
They arrived before Hyde, and I recognized the same lead detective from the previous two murders. His demeanor was different this time. Gone was the bumbling disinterest. The chain of events was too great even for him, and he assumed the mantle of a real detective, a true officer of the law, and began to direct the proceedings with the sort of fervor that I had longed for when Mr. Beatie died.
He introduced himself to me, finally, as Detective Drummond. He has the grizzled face of a bulldog, with a vast expanse of clearly visible and broken blood vessels apparent across his cheeks and nose. He regarded me coolly for a long moment, and then spoke the words that still echo through my mind.
“Mr. Purefoy. Perhaps we should speak to you in private.”
I know that I have been accused of displaying my every emotion, my every thought, within my expression. Until today, I had never witnessed such a thing on another, and had begun to believe that it was implausible that I was capable of such a thing.
Detective Drummond proved that otherwise. He stared at me, and I could see something in his face, in his eyes, that made a deep, dark thought form within my mind. I thought of Mr. Rose and the rumors that I was involved in this terror. The whispered words that I was killing people, so that Hyde was in possession of the much-needed research cadavers.
And I could tell that Drummond was thinking the same things as well. He knew me from Mitchell’s. I was the connecting link. I was acquainted with all three victims. Three murders, two different locations.
One common denominator. Me.
“I think it best, Mr. Purefoy,” he said, displaying a smile that was completely lacking in warmth. “We should speak at the station. It is quieter there. More private.”
“Of course,” I said. “Anything that can help with the investigation.”
“I understand that you are a butcher,” he said suddenly, his eyes taking on an unfortunate glow.
“My father is,” I replied. “I am an assistant to Dr. Ian Hyde of the Doctoral Council.”
“I know who Hyde is,” Drummond retorted, and I could see distaste clearly evident on his face. He smiled again, a terrible grin.
“I also know that there have been murders. Lots of murders, Mr. Purefoy, assistant to Dr. Ian Hyde! Bodies have gone missing from their graves, Mr. Purefoy. People have been mutilated all across Auld Toon. Bits are missing. Cuts are made.” That terrible grin widened. “Butchery cuts.”
And then he called for my room to be searched. He informed me then that I was under arrest for suspicion of murder.
I will admit that a raw panic overwhelmed me. Immediately, I began insisting that I was innocent, that I was as horrified and traumatized as anyone else by these murders. I said that I was certainly happy to cooperate in his investigations, but that he must be assured that I was completely and utterly innocent.
My words fell on deaf ears. All around me, I could see the reaction of my fellow boarders. They recoiled from me. Horror and revulsion filled their expressions as they stared. Mrs. MacGregor wept openly, and screamed for me to get out of her house at once.
I realized then that I was carrying a veritable arsenal upon my person. Standing there, amid the police and growing rabble, I could feel the weight of the weapons upon me. I realized then how it would appear, should I be discovered. All it would take was for someone to remove my coat. One touch against my back would further vilify me. How could I possibly explain the fact that I was currently garbed in enough weaponry for a warrior?
I realized then that I was dressed for murder.
Most of the tools were knives and various blades. I found myself unable to look away from poor Mr. Robertson, from his ruined body, clearly cut by knives. I knew, without a doubt, that should my weapons be discovered, then all hope was lost for me.
The Gentlemen! What had they done to me? They had framed me for murder, so succinctly and perfectly that I nearly howled with anguish. They had outfitted me for the crimes. How could I have been so stupid as to allow their interference? Why had I so blithely accepted such strange gifts? Was I so comfortable in my confusion that I had lost all good sense entirely?
But why frame me? Why have me accused of murder? What game, what amusement is this?
“I will go to the station,” I said, as two burly policemen approached me. I was horrified that they might touch me, might discover my horrible secret. “No need to force me. I will go willingly.”
“Good man, Mr. Purefoy,” Drummond said with another vicious smile. “Your cloak and gloves, sir.”
How relieved I was to see my cloak, for that little bit of politeness! Hurriedly, I slipped it around my shoulders, desperate for another protective shield. My hands trembled as I put on my gloves, and I concentrated on keeping the guilt away from my face.
And I know that I failed miserably.
/>
I could see that my bedroom door was open as the policemen led me through the murmuring crowd. Two men were roughly searching through my belongings. My trunks had been pulled out from beneath my bed and were being ransacked. Parchments were scattered. Books tossed to and fro. Your letters were dumped unceremoniously against the bothy blanket.
And all around me, the crowd grew restless. Word spread fast among the boarders and gawkers. Fear turned to anger as the dark rumor swirled among them. I could feel the violence simmering just beneath the surface as we descended the stairs and walked through the open front door.
I met Hyde then, who could read it all in my expression.
Fury ignited his features, but he did not call out. He only stared at me with those strange sea foam eyes and then gave a curt nod, before turning his back on me and walking away down the pavement. The crowd on the pavement parted for him, as it always did, and then I could no longer see him.
I was stunned. I was not expecting him to leave. I had very stupidly formed the idea that we were in this together. I was assured he believed in my innocence. How could he think that I would be involved, that I would be the murderer? How could he believe it?
I was frightened. And alone. And arrested.
The police ushered me into a carriage, and then we set off. My mind worked a hundred miles a minute. I tried to think of how best to proceed, how I could possibly convey my own innocence. Hyde’s betrayal sat ill upon me, making an already impossible situation worse. If he did not believe me, if he could so easily turn his back, then why would anyone else do differently?
Despair filled me. Despair and terror. I knew without a doubt that this was the end for me. I knew my innocence. I knew that you would know it. My family would believe me. But that is a small group of supporters, and none of you would reach me before I found myself hung for crimes I did not commit.
And with every jostle of the carriage, I could feel the weapons. I made sure that the cloak covered me, determined to do so without eliciting more interest than I had already garnered. I could not decide what was worse, actually wearing the weapons, or leaving them in my room to be discovered. Rapidly, my mind raced through my belongings. I had left nothing damning, nothing that would cause the police to decide my guilt. All of the guns and knives were currently strapped to me, hidden by the coat and cloak. My butchering knives were at the office, as they always are. My medical scalpels and knives were there as well.
Nothing of interest in my room. The cane’s secret, hopefully, would not be discovered. How I wished I could hide the things at the office, since I assumed they would search there as well. Once they discovered the knife set, and saw the tools of a butcher, I knew all would be lost. No one would hear my pleas of innocence then.
I wished I could toss what weapons I was wearing out the carriage window. I wished I had never accepted them. How much I hated the Gentlemen and their perverse form of amusements!
We arrived at the station quicker than I hoped. I was surprised by the polite care I was given, and I do not know why they insisted upon treating me as a gentleman. If they did believe me to be a brutal murderer, then it seemed an odd choice. Perhaps it was because I spoke pleasantly, and followed willingly. Or maybe they did not find me so threatening that they felt a need for rough treatment as they led me into the confines of the station.
A hundred pairs of eyes met mine, myriad police coming to see me enter. Clearly, word had gone before, alerting them that they were bringing in a suspect to the murders. The single suspect. The stares were incessant, and yet they too treated me with a fair amount of respect.
Most important, they did not search me. Nor take my cloak and coat.
Again, and I can only say this to you, my beloved girl, this is another example of truly terrible policing. Why I was not patted down and searched for weapons is beyond me. I consider it a miracle, a sign that God was smiling down upon the wretched Alistair Purefoy.
I found myself ensconced in a very small room, no larger than an antechamber. There was only a badly battered table and two hard-backed chairs. I was told to take one and to make myself comfortable (another odd policing choice). The policemen then left, shutting the door behind them. I could hear the telltale snick of a lock sliding into place.
I was arrested.
Misery defined me. Misery. Regret. Fear. Terror. Grief. All of these emotions overwhelmed me as I sat, still and quiet. There was nothing to do, other than face my own emotions. The room was stuffy and still, and yet I knew better than to take their advice and make myself comfortable. The cloak remained, as did the coat, in spite of my discomfort.
I do not know how long I sat, but it felt an eternity. I was acutely aware of the possibility of my being covertly observed, so I did my best to keep calm. I continued to sit, quiet and still, as the minutes surely passed into hours. I knew that my face betrayed my thoughts, and yet I was unable to steer away from them. Nothing, not even thoughts of you, could ease me.
I began to use the endless time as an opportunity to sort through the confusion. The case against me became extremely clear. It became apparent that I am in possession of no friends in Edinburgh. No one to plead my case. To defend my innocence. Like poor Mr. Beatie, I am a nobody. An unknown. I lack power and prestige. I am here illegally, having secretly crossed the Scottish militarized border. I possess many knives. I have the skill to use them, and it is within reason that I could carve up a body like I would any animal flesh.
I shudder at the thought. It repulses me, but I forced myself to look at the facts. At their facts.
I knew the victims. I know knives. My defense was only that I am not a murderer, that I did not commit the crimes! Who would believe me?
Not Hyde. I was sickened by my own misconception that we were becoming friends. He probably thought it best if he washed his hands entirely of me. He was probably relieved to be done with our association, horrified that he could be working alongside a possible killer.
I am victim to the Gentlemen’s whim, and I believed that this was the bit that was going to solidify the case against me. The Gentlemen are powerful. They are of Society. Who would believe that they gave me weapons? That they gave me knives? How fantastic to think that they would do such a thing. To think that they would equip a killer!
It occurred to me then that perhaps I was the one selected to take the fall. Perhaps one of them was the murderer, and they had chosen me to be the accused. The idea was sickening, and I knew that if it were true, then all indeed was lost.
I was victim to their amusement. To their sordid game. Who would believe a butcher over a Gentleman?
It was with these horrible thoughts, these clear revelations, that the door finally opened. I was too ruined to care. All I could do would be to profess my innocence, and that I knew to be a useless cause. My guilt had been arranged for me. I was guilty only of accepting gifts. Of allowing confusion to guide my life. The police, however, would see otherwise.
“Mr. Purefoy.” The voice was kind. “Mr. Purefoy, my name is August Smithson, and I am here to save you.”
Chapter Seventeen
Smithson. The Gentleman I had yet to meet. The one who had given me the cane.
I looked at him, a hundred different thoughts rushing into my mind. He was tall and elegant, dressed as impeccably as the others of his group. As I watched, he swept off his top hat, giving me a glimpse of blond hair. I suppose he was handsome, with sharply defined features and steely green eyes. He was the type that Miss Whitcomb would describe as “dashing.” His expression was one of barely suppressed mirth, and I was stunned to realize that this man seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.
At my expense. I was still the amusement of choice for the Gentlemen.
“Go to hell,” I said before I could stop myself. “You and all of your friends have done this to me.”
I apologize fo
r the foul language, Miss Eugenia. I believe you can forgive me, considering my dire circumstances.
Mr. Smithson laughed, a deeply happy sound that only furthered my fury. He grinned as he doffed his gloves, tossing them and the hat squarely onto the table before me. He released his grip on an eerily similar cane to mine own, propping it up against the side of the table.
“Of course we have not, Purefoy. Oh! I am glad that you are still wearing your cloak and coat. You are armed, I assumed. They have not been discovered?”
“The weapons you have gifted me,” I said, my words terse and bitter, “have not been discovered. I know you are intending to frame me with them, and—”
“And that is utter nonsense, but I do appreciate your keen mind. Good to know you have looked at all the options, absurd as they are.” He continued to smile as he grasped the back of the other chair. The noise echoed as he dragged it around the table, setting it up before me. He sat facing me, as calmly as if we were conducting a normal social call.
“Mr. Purefoy, let me assure you,” he began, raising his hand to silence my furious words, “the Gentlemen and I are your friends. I am here to help you. To save you.”
“How is that possible? I am doomed. For whatever nefarious reason, I have been betrayed and framed. By you and your friends.”
Smithson laughed. “Have a bit of faith in us, lad. I will have you released within the hour.”
“Released?” I blinked, and feeling the return of confusion, I forced myself beyond it. “How is that possible?”
“I am your solicitor,” Smithson replied. He smiled. “Drummond is going to be extremely upset to see me. He should be. Arresting you with hardly a reason at all! He will be lucky if we allow him to keep his position on the force, once I am through mangling his reputation.”
I rebelled against the confusion. I fought it. Never again will I allow half answers.
“My solicitor,” I said slowly. Smithson nodded. “I cannot afford one, sir.”
The Curious Steambox Affair Page 17