The Curious Steambox Affair (15 page)

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, and 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.

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.