Gordon MacBean wanted to take Alistair to the Operating Theatre, as did Smithson, but we know that Hyde is the best there is. He has Alistair sedated now, so that he might address his very grievous wounds. His shoulders are not dislocated, thankfully, although they are injured. He can move his fingers, which is good.
That brings me to the end of my tale. Be assured that we are all here, doing what we can for your Warrior. Hyde is working steadily upon him, and as soon as I have more news, I will write again and update you.
My very best regards,
Dog Benge
Chapter Twenty-Nine
November 21
Desk of Dr. Ian Hyde
Dear Miss Campbell,
Dog Benge is a damned idiot. Clearly, he was too busy butchering the villains to pay any true attention to what occurred within the depths of the Physicians’ Hall.
I assigned him the simplest of tasks, one a child could manage given only the very briefest of instructions. I asked him to write to you, to provide illumination for what was undoubtedly the worst night and dawn of my existence.
He failed, and he failed epically. It was not as if Benge is required elsewhere. He provides no doctoral help, nothing to aid my care of your wounded Purefoy. He can hardly play nursemaid, and I neither appreciate nor require his prolific medical opinions. I had hoped my request that he sit out of my way and detail events would provide a focus for his restless and admittedly annoying presence within my home.
It did not. For some unknown reason, he felt the need to rush the task and then return to his vulture perch at the foot of Purefoy’s bed. He did not even bother to post the message himself, handing it off to my footman instead. I suppose he realized that, should he leave, I would not hesitate to lock my doors against him and the rest of his Gentlemanly crew.
And so, I find the task of writing has fallen upon my shoulders. I do not shirk from the responsibility of detailing events. I am very well aware that my assistant spoke plainly with you, on all matters. You would wish to know the truth of what occurred; hence I am affording you that courtesy.
It seems strange to introduce myself. I am certain you know of me, and I have heard little else from my apprentice, other than details of his correspondence with you.
I am Dr. Ian Hyde.
I have little use for pretense, little care for silly parlor talk. I know of your agreement to speak frankly on all subjects. I can appreciate that. It is how I conduct myself on a daily basis. Why bother pretending one’s opinions? Why shirk reality? Anything other than abject honesty gets in the way of my continual search for Truth, and it is with that idea that I sit tonight to write you.
Be assured, your Purefoy is sleeping. I have relocated my desk so that I might watch him as I write. It is hardly a necessary precaution. With the crowd arranged around his sickbed, it is a wonder the boy can rest at all.
Also, please know that I am doing everything within my power to heal and repair his damage. My reputation as physician is not mere speculation. I am known as the best because I am. Medically, there is no equal. I will not rest until Mr. Purefoy is returned to his usual health and vitality. Not to mention his ever-present overabundance of enthusiasm.
Part of my annoyance with Benge’s letter (and I read enough before he sent it away) was his apparent determination to herald his own participation in the night’s events. Certainly, he was involved in the rescue. He was an integral part of the bloody revenge, the savage butchery, warrior whoop and all. But I would argue that he hardly knows half of the night’s events, and I cannot help but take offense at his gross misinterpretation of his own importance.
Still, he is American. I suppose it would be impossible for him to tell a tale without making himself the unabashed hero.
I was actually the one who first noticed the absence of my assistant. Purefoy has always been known for his punctuality. In all my months of knowing him, he has never been late. His routine is constant and utterly predictable. Even while living here, his patterns could be matched with the clock. Meal times once fluctuated with my moods and whim, but since Purefoy’s arrival on my doorstep, he expects his breakfast and supper at the precise time, without fail. He appears in the camera tower at the same time, day after day. He considers his work finished at a time specific to him, his own designated hour, and he follows that self-created schedule to a fault.
And so, on Monday evening, he was off to that dreadfully cramped bookshop . . . I assume to create another of his undoubtedly dreary letters. He was under my strict instruction to return with a fresh bottle of whisky, and I was keenly anticipating his return. Before he left, I was quite clear that there was to be no dreamy dawdling, and Purefoy, as usual, laughingly assured me that he would comply with my demands.
A quick aside . . . I have always used spirits to aid me in my cognitive thinking, to sharpen my mind, to focus myself on whatever task or puzzle I have set before me. My personality is such that I often find it difficult to keep emotion from muddying my concentration.
My brother calls it my Darkness, but to that I say “Balderdash!”
Any alleged Darkness is only a result of my incessant search for Truth. I cannot and will not allow any emotional burden of humanity to get in the way of what my mind can accomplish. I find that the occasional whisky or such spirits help me keep the looming threat of “feeling” at bay. On Monday evening I had much to do and had intended for Purefoy to procure the needed elixir necessary for focus.
And so you must know that Monday’s events, of which I was very much a part, were certainly affected by my own human emotions. I had no whisky or spirit to hold back the response, nothing to protect my glowing mind from their effect. For this, I must apologize. If I had taken time to partake, I believe I would have discovered his location far sooner. If my mind had been at its sharpest, its most brilliant, then I would have remembered the old wine vaults beneath the Physicians’ Hall. I would have thought of it sooner, and perhaps saved us all a wealth of heartbreak.
My mind, you see, is my weapon. It is my bludgeon, suitable to all problems and situations. Spirits keep it sharp, keep me focused, but in the crazed search, I did not take time to imbibe.
In fact, tonight is the first time I have touched the stuff since this nightmare began. Just now, sitting at my desk before the fire, I have poured myself a much-needed glass. I believe the tale will sort itself more clearly within my mind if I find my focus, my Truth. My emotions were certainly there that night and violent dawn. They made matters much more difficult than they should have been, and I can only hope that you accept my apology for not protecting the sanctity of my mind earlier.
And so, I raise a toast to you, Miss Campbell. Or as they say in the Highlands, “I drink a wee dram.”
But I digress.
I noticed his tardiness at once. It was unusual, and Purefoy in his conduct and manner leans toward the predictable, as I have said. I ascended to my camera tower and decided to start my hunt there. It was possible that he had ignored my command, and had become lost in his imaginings. (Which has happened, on many occasions. I often wonder how he can keep up at all, what with his tendency to get lost within his own observations.) I decided to use the far-reaching scope of the camera obscura to ascertain if my fears were indeed true, if in fact he was lingering at Hay’s. He might have stopped at his favorite restaurant, the one I enjoyed as well until it became overrun with too many Gentlemen for my liking. He might have paused there, to search those queer brass and glass tiny windows, looking for the too-often elusive turtle soup.
I considered Stuart’s tavern, and spent a great deal of time staring at its front door. It is set at such an angle that I cannot see deeper into the tavern properly (as I receive excellent visuals through the very large windows of both the queer little restaurant and Hay’s Bookshop, since those windows are properly and conveniently placed at angles that can
be reached by my lens). I saw a great number of drunkards, many reprobates, but no glimpse of Purefoy.
I am considering the placement of mirrors, strategically arranged throughout this terrible, twisting town, to prevent further difficulty in future.
Even from the distance, angles or no, my camera lens would have been able to find him if he had been about. The lens is great in its scope, fine in its focus. Had Purefoy been at any usual location, I would have known.
He was not. Punctual Purefoy was gone.
It was at that moment that my elder brother, Simon Trantham, made an unwanted but fortuitous appearance within my tower. Usually, by agreement, he does not cross the threshold of what I consider my sacred space (his being his own library, which I habitually agree to not patronize). However, on Monday evening, Simon was concerned with the possible poisonous nature of one of my newer flora implants into our shared garden (poisonous, yes, but necessary to my overall scheme of creation).
I was quick to interrupt his furious tirade. I alerted him of the unexpected disappearance of our friend. Simon’s concern mirrored mine own, and he went into action with his usual surety and speed.
Which summoned the attention of the Merry Gentlemen. Despite all of my complaints over their faults (and there are many, let me assure you), on the matter of grand-scale and thorough search, the Gentlemen have no equal.
Benge described their efforts reasonably well, what with the airship deployment and investigative start. I have to grudgingly admit that the Gentlemanly strength also lies in their ability to separate tasks, each focusing on his own best abilities. I have always thought that, among my brother’s friends, there is a wide dichotomy of those who possess stronger intellectual leanings with the ones I consider of more brutish, physical strength. In times of stress, it is their pattern to each focus on his own talents, working together seamlessly to achieve the desired goal.
The cerebrals (or so they think) are my brother Simon, Gordon MacBean, and August Smithson. They use their alleged intellectual power to oversee the project. They utilize their social positioning, be it with the Crown, legal, or police. They are ruthless in any campaign, and despite their overblown egos (rampant!), they manage tolerably well to reach the end of the puzzle without too much strain.
The physicals (I often consider them pugilists) fall lower on my intellectual scale, at least in matters of the traditionally cerebral. These would be the Savage Benge, the Irish O’Sullivan, and the Venetian count. I suppose you could consider them intellectual in a pedestrian sense. They are well versed in everything pugilist, knowledgeable with all sorts of weaponry. Plotting and planning is not their forte, and they prefer a more aggressive approach to any investigation.
I almost forgot my cousin, Hamish MacBean. He is neither cerebral, nor physical, although he would argue both. He comes last and has the unenviable task of correcting all the damage inflicted by the Gentlemen. How he manages is of little concern to me, and I scarcely think of him other than with fleeting thoughts of pity for finding himself so ignobly employed within the Merry group.
The cerebrals centered their campaign in Simon’s library, working out possible scenarios for who could have taken Purefoy and, most important, where he was located. There was a constant stream of intelligence being shuffled in from the outside. Policemen milled about, as did several members of the Chevalier Cabinet, all offering their dubious skills in whatever area they believed most helpful.
I made inquiries of those acquaintances I share with Purefoy. The Whitcomb brothers, as well as their sister, have many contacts within the merchants of town. It was within the realm of possibility that Purefoy stopped in to pay his respects, but they reported no sign of him.
In the great hubbub of raised voices and commotion, I noticed a distinct absence of the Gentlemen pugilists. I found it tiresome to listen to some of the ideas being tossed about, particularly those of the police. At least my brother and his Gentlemen friends remained realistic about options. I hardly thought it possible that Purefoy could have been spirited off to France, although that was one of the bizarre discussions, police-wise.
My brother very wisely suggested that we concentrate first upon Edinburgh. Our finding of his cane, at the foot of a close, was a clear indication that we were on the right track. The docks at Leith were scoured, but no ships were reported leaving Monday night.
But the pugilists . . . the pugilists were distinctly missing. Obviously, they were up to something, had gotten an urge to investigate separately from the others. I was admittedly intrigued, and was finding it increasingly difficult to remain present in my brother’s noisy, bustling library.
A quick inquiry to a maid informed me that they were out. They had left, only moments before my noticing. I made great haste to my adjacent townhome, hurrying through my covered garden and into my own abode. Before very long I was ensconced, once again, within my camera tower.
Many hours had passed since my earlier, fruitless search for Purefoy. The sky was lightening with dawn, but there were still gaslights flickering along the street, providing ample illumination. It was incredibly easy to find my prey, all three of them, hurrying along the pavement like furtive schoolchildren, off on an errant and secretive mission.
I return to this letter after a necessary pause. Purefoy just stirred in his sleep, his words incoherent. All is well. He has returned into healing slumber, despite the loud worries of his Gentlemen friends. My suggestion that they retire elsewhere (preferably France) was ignored. But they have settled down, chairs arranged higgledy-piggledy, in an attempt, I suppose, to provide unnecessary guard.
And so I return to the pugilists. To the three. Dog Benge. Patrick O’Sullivan. Anthony Martino.
My lens was sharp enough to see that they were speaking among themselves. I could easily see their features, see their lips moving as they spoke. It is easy enough to follow the pattern of their mouths, to decipher the words spoken. That is a simple exercise, and one I employ quite often. I find it intriguing that so many people believe a lowered voice (even by distance) is adequate protection for private conversation. All it takes is concentration, and one can quite easily understand what is being said, simply by keen observation and focus!
It is easier, still, to activate the auditory capabilities of my camera obscura.
A simple depression of a lever, and my tower was echoing with sound. The buzz is literal; I have yet to perfect the transmission of noise, have not yet been able to halt the ensuing wail that is an unwanted accompaniment to this particular feature. The sound capability is linked with wherever my lens is pointed, but the buzz is often so loud it is headache-inducing.
That aside, I can hear well enough, my visual orchestra of the city no longer silent. In only moments, I knew their destination. I knew the pugilist O’Sullivan had possessed one of his finer intelligent moments (a startling thought), a location I would have ascertained, if I had been within my right mind.
And so, I followed them to the Old Physicians’ Hall, armed with my pistol and cane. I did notice that Benge made no mention of my presence within his missive. Either he did not notice my trail (which casts doubt upon his allegedly superior observational skills) or he did and was upset that I was so easily able to trace the silent Savage. One never knows with Benge, and I learned long ago to not try to analyze the man too much (pointless waste of energies).
The Physicians’ Hall was an obvious choice, and as I hurried toward it, I remembered with great clarity the vast vaults that lay beneath it. The pieces came together with their usual, sudden snap. Rose had met Purefoy there only days previously. It was so obvious that I found it difficult to not shout, and it was with great speed that I made my way there.
Another sip of whisky. My mind clears. All emotion gone.
I begin with the vault.
The tunnel work is extensive, cut into the mountain dirt, sculpted into various cham
bers. Through time, this place has had many uses. At one time, there were connecting operating theatres here, although they were not as functional as the current. For a time they were wine cellars, stocked to the brim with the offerings of a grateful population to the doctors who treated their illnesses.
They are empty in these days, save for this cold Tuesday dawn. Again, Benge did an adequate job describing the initial horror of finding Purefoy. I will not trouble you again with those specific details. You know he was hung by his wrists and beaten. At one point, he was buried alive, which was the first of many puzzles I was able to solve that morning.
The Hall, as I have said, is cut into the mountain, the vaults reached by an oddly angled pathway (so much of this city defies the usual, and even geology tends to assume Edinburgh’s unlimited requirement for strange). Parts of the vaults’ walls are rough stone, as is much of the floor. In this particular section, however, the floor is primarily soil, easy enough to dig into, should that be your bizarre wish. And it was a bizarre wish, a decidedly odd one, and I found myself wondering why MacDougal would feel the need to create what was essentially a submerged gravesite.
Was this premeditated? Obviously. The vault was well lit with abundant torchlight. Rose had met Purefoy at the Physicians’ Hall before. Had he intended to seize him then, to drag him down into the Netherworld? Was he prevented in executing his dastardly plan by the presence of O’Sullivan?
Of that truth, I am convinced.
Why burial? No one would have discovered his body. (And again, I am entrusting your willingness to hear Truth. You are a lady of science. Science demands honesty, no matter the distress of topic. You too search for Truth, or else you would not be a willing partner in the tumultuous life of Alistair Purefoy. And so, I pose my question, knowing that the rougher the question, the clearer the answer.)
If they killed him outright (which they would have done, undoubtedly, if this were not a revenge-motivated crime), then his body could easily deteriorate beneath the cavernous hall for all eternity. Who would return to those dirty depths, hidden behind a fireplace? Save MacDougal and myself, there are very few left on Doctoral staff who remember the vaults at all.
The Curious Steambox Affair Page 31