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Authors: Melissa Macgregor

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BOOK: The Curious Steambox Affair
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I was surprised to hear Hyde laugh, the amusement in his expression so startling that I instantly regretted speaking at all.

“Poor Purefoy,” he said finally, once he was able to speak. “You do not understand, do you?”

“That is why I am asking,” I said stiffly, trying to keep my irritation at bay. “It seems ludicrous to pretend otherwise. Ludicrous and ignorant. I always think it better to ask when I do not know something.”

“If you had failed inspection from Dog Benge, you would know,” Hyde said. “I can promise you that.”

And that, my dear Miss E., is the extent of what I managed to discover, with regard to the Indian. It still makes no sense to me, but from what I can gather, Trantham is involved with a group of men who have private investigation as a hobby. An amusement. I do not know how many of them there are, or really what they are about in detail, but I do know that Hyde is responsible for all medical questions they might have.

And I assume I passed the Indian's inspection, although I am still puzzling what, precisely, is meant by that. Was he studying my character? Trying to decide if I was, in fact, the murderer? A horrible thought! He asked me no pertinent questions. He made no inquiry. All of our conversations were related to the body itself, and he treated me as I would expect him to treat any physician's assistant. No questions about where I was that night, or details asked about my knowledge of Beatie.

For the past few days, my mind has replayed the hours spent in the presence of the Indian. If I had realized I was being “inspected” then I should have behaved differently. I am thinking again and again of my appreciation of his knife, and hoping he did not read more into that than was intended. I should not have stared quite so much, imagining him amid the American forests. I should have been more conciliatory and respectful and . . .

Madness! I find it difficult to think of anything else. Again and again, my thoughts return to it. When I close my eyes at night, I can see the Indian, offering me the knife. I can feel his dark eyes watching me.

And I fear I must trust Hyde in this matter. Obviously, I passed inspection, since I do not know otherwise. Benge saw the truth, saw my clear grief, my innocence. Why they are interested in me is astounding. It confuses me. I cannot help but be concerned by what it could mean.

Is it just me, or are the peoples of Edinburgh loathe to adhere to normal behaviors? I think back on my time in the Highlands and remember only straightforward folk, who behaved in expected, normal patterns. Conversations were never confusing. Things were usually as they appeared. I find myself exhausted by the continual subterfuge, the mysteries, and long for a time when something, finally, is as it should be.

I breathe in roses, and am returned to more cheerful thoughts. To you.

Be assured, you shall occupy my every thought tonight. As you so often do.

Regards.

Chapter Eleven

October 8

Mitchell Boarding House

Miss Campbell,

Forgive my scrawl; I hope it is legible. My hand is shaking so much that I fear it impossible to write, and yet I am at a complete loss as to what else to do. I have a bit of time here, and the madness of doing nothing is making an already miserable situation worse. If I can, I will write, and take what pleasure I can from thinking of you.

I start again with terrible, terrible news. There has been a second murder. Mr. Banbury, my fellow Englishman. My neighbor. And again, it is as horrific as it was before.

He was discovered this morning in his room by Mrs. Mitchell. I had already left for the office, noticing nothing out of sorts. I was with Hyde when the message arrived. Mr. Stuart thought it best if I knew that there had been a second attack, and requested that I return to the boarding house as soon as possible. Which I did. Hyde insisted that he come along, and I was more than happy for the company.

We arrived amid the melee and confusion that so resembled the farce of Beatie's passing. The same police were there, although this time they displayed a bit more enthusiasm for their case. The hallway was crowded, but we pushed our way through. I saw Stuart by his doorway, and he ushered us forward.

Banbury. My heart is still keeping its rapid beat, even though it has been hours since discovery. Again, I will keep my descriptions short. I am only telling you at all because you are
you
. You are my centering. My calm oasis in the face of a terrible storm. How could I write you and keep something this terrible out of my letters? I fear you would recognize the falsity of my words, and would take offense at my lack of honesty.

And so, I tell. But only enough so that you understand that I am in a terrible, terrible way. Another friend lost. One of the few who showed me kindness. I am exhausted by grief and shock, and wish with even greater fervency that I was far, far away from this place.

Banbury!

He was found in his room, with as grisly a scene as Beatie suffered. Blood everywhere. A terrible attack upon his person. Hyde immediately shouldered his way into the room, barking out that everyone was to stand back and give him space. I was not surprised that everyone obeyed. Even the wailing Mrs. Mitchell and the police did things precisely as demanded by Hyde.

I did not hesitate to follow. I felt dazed and stunned and deeply sickened, but I am, at heart, a physician's assistant. My physician was in the room, inspecting the body. And so was I.

I had the terrible sense that this crime had been committed sometime this morning. It was all too fresh. Too new. Again, no robbery attempt. Nothing appeared disturbed, save for poor Mr. Banbury.

Forgive me the horror of telling you, but he was cut, repeatedly. Instantly, I checked his tongue, but it was in place. His eyes, however, were not. Neither were his ears.

Sweet Eugenia! Forgive me my honesty. I can barely stand it myself, and to share it with you? Well, there is no excuse. Forgive me, I beg you.

The Indian appeared again, Mr. Benge, while Hyde and I were busying ourselves with our inspection of the crime scene. He frightened me by his sudden presence in the room, his stealthy approach. I was too consumed with horror and determination to give him much thought, however, and it was not until hours later that I remembered his task of inspecting
me.

Had he been sent by the Gentlemen to inspect me once more?

Again, he was polite, almost cheerful. He listened while the police began a more usual questioning, asking everyone where they had been the night previous and this morning. I answered truthfully. Last night I was at the office until late, and then at the bookshop until closing. I returned home. I saw only Mr. Stuart, who agreed on the same. This morning, I only saw the MacIntoshes, but that was upstairs at the dining table. Oh, and Mrs. Mitchell, who was overseeing the presentation of breakfast, alongside a serving maid.

I had not seen Banbury since Saturday late. He seemed in his usual foul mood, upset over some commotion at his work. I admitted that I had scarcely paid any attention at all; I had been intent on returning to my room and my waiting novel.

MacKay and Wallace were summoned as well, and they were as disagreeable and loud as always. I think they were intimidated by the presence of Hyde and the Indian, and they made themselves scarce as soon as possible. I cannot say that I miss them. Their complete and utter lack of humanity at terrible times such as these is astounding.

Banbury. I simply cannot believe that the man is gone. And so horrifically!

I must pause now in my terrible tale. Hyde has returned and we are taking my belongings away. I have been convinced to find other lodgings. Two murders is too much for even my stout constitution to take, and I willingly took Hyde up on his offer to find me another place to stay. More later . . .

I have returned to the letter now, and am in complete distress as to the details above. I am conflicted, however, with the desire to be absolutely honest with you, and the need to protect you from the terrors I have witnessed. It seems that, out of all the people in the world, you are the one with whom I should be the most honest. I also feel that you are the one I need to protect the most. And so, you might have noticed that I have blotted out a few words in the above paragraphs with concern for the exact nature of Mr. Banbury's injuries. I have carefully spread a thin drop of candlewax across the words, light enough that you can scratch it out and read for yourself if you insist, but please, I beg you to keep the wax in place. I am in agony, thinking of your reading the horrific descriptions, and have almost surrendered the letter entirely and begun again. For now, the candlewax assures me that you are untroubled, which truly is the most important thing in the world to me.

I have been settled into a far nicer boarding house than Mitchell's. It is still in Auld Toon, but I have a nice, private room, well above the basement, with a window that overlooks the bustling close. A window! Such luxury. I have already opened it a crack, letting in a healthy dose of air. The smell of coal smoke surrounds me, as does the chill, but the feverish grief is still upon me. I feel nothing but it, and I take comfort in the shouts that drift up from the pavement below. It sounds like life, and that noise is very much what I need right now.

My room is larger than previously, with a far more comfortable bed and a proper armoire. A nice braided rug covers the wooden floor. There is a vanity and a desk, and my trunks fit beneath the bed, providing far more space than that to which I am accustomed. This is the MacGregor Boarding House, and it is run by a pleasant couple who insist on keeping a tidy household and pride themselves on their hearty meals, or so they claim. I have yet to meet anyone boarded here, nor have I enjoyed the food, but all in all, it seems a far nicer place than what I have just left.

I will certainly have no use for Hyde's protective weapon of choice, a gleaming pistol, which I have tucked securely beneath my bed. As much as I appreciate his kindness, I think it unnecessary to have it lying about. This is a respectable place, but Hyde ignored my attempt to return the gun. So, it is in my trunk, where it should be.

The morning was horrific. My afternoon chaotic. And my evening—well, simply put, it was bizarre.

I never expected to have dinner with an Indian.

Mr. Benge startled me by being involved in my move to the MacGregor house. He was waiting in the carriage, dark and silent, as we finished loading my trunks. You can imagine my surprise at seeing him again, and, I will confess, my fear. He was dressed far more appropriately than he had been during my first meeting in the Operating Theatre, in a severe black coat and trousers that sufficiently hid all tattooing. His long hair was gathered back and made less noticeable by a hat pulled low across his forehead. His gloved fingers tapped impatiently against the top of a pearl-inlaid cane, and he sat in the shadows of the carriage, obviously intending to travel with us.

Hyde appeared displeased to see him but said little as we settled ourselves into the carriage. It was evident that Benge had not been present on the journey to Mitchell's, but he was here now. I was beginning to think we were going to travel in abject silence, as the carriage fit into the endless flow of traffic, and I found that I no longer cared. Such tragedy and horror was overwhelming, and I was beginning to feel exhaustion settle in.

I was startled when Mr. Benge spoke.

“You appear to be in grave danger, Mr. Purefoy,” he said, as our carriage careened down the steep decline. “I am pleased that you are uninjured.”

“I am not in danger,” I replied. “It only seems that my friends are.”

“Danger is danger,” Benge replied with a shrug. “Friends are friends.”

“You should not be here,” Hyde said. “I already told Simon that none of you were to be involved—”

“I am here only to be of assistance,” Benge interrupted smoothly. “To Mr. Purefoy. This truly has little to do with you, Hyde.”

Hyde's fury was instantaneous, and determined to stop what was certain to be a blistering attack, I spoke without thinking.

“You are here to inspect me?” I asked, hating the words as soon as I spoke. Hyde switched his glare to me, but I was too worried about insulting the Indian to give Hyde more than a passing thought. Benge watched me with his glittering dark eyes, and I could feel the heaviness of silence descend upon the carriage.

“That was before,” Benge said finally, with a half smile. “All of that is in the past now. I am here to offer assistance, as the need should arise.”

“What sort of inspection?” I asked. Beside me, Hyde muttered and cursed, but I was simply too distressed to care. After all I had been through, it seemed acceptable to me to inquire the Indian's opinion with regard to my character. “Forgive me for being rude, but I wish to know more. Did you consider me a suspect? Do you again?”

“No.” Benge's eyes flashed with barely suppressed mirth. “And I can hardly blame you for inquiring, Mr. Purefoy. I would have been disappointed if you had not. I met with you, at the Theatre, as protocol only. Trantham had already assured me that you were innocent.”

“How do you know that?” I asked, unable to stop myself. “How did he know that?”

“Because your every emotion and thought is continually displayed upon your visage,” Hyde answered. He leaned forward, bestowing his terrible grin upon Benge. “You are not to be here. Your presence causes further distress. Surely the situation is dire enough without your participation.”

“Your grief is unmistakable, Mr. Purefoy,” Benge said, his gaze steady upon Hyde. “Your innocence is without pretense or falsehood. You were destroyed alongside Mr. Beatie, as only an innocent can be. Today was no different, and Dr. Hyde . . . ,” he said, his smile suddenly as terrible as Hyde's own. “Hyde, you cannot stop what is already in motion. Not even you possess that power.”

“Why do you consider me endangered?” I asked, disliking the feel of imminent violence that was beginning to permeate the carriage. Forgive me again, dearest girl, but I was completely and utterly at my wits' end. What little control I retained over my own volatile emotions was beginning to slip. I could feel it, could sense that my own reaction to the nightmare of the morning was beginning to take form.

I feared it, feared this complete loss of control. Frustration over the morning would easily shift into temper. Temper into an uncontrollable rage. If an altercation broke out between the two men with whom I was sharing a carriage, I knew well enough that I would be unable to remain uninvolved. I would fight as well, but the question remained whom I should hit first. Both men? Hyde? Benge?

Forgive me. It has been a difficult day, for all of us, and I feared that, should one misstep be made, then a melee would ensue. In all fairness, we would all feel better for it. Helplessness is such a terrible feeling, and aggression, even misplaced, can soothe unresolved terror.

I felt my fists tighten as if from their own accord. Benge noticed the action, and his rich laughter suddenly filled the carriage, bursting the dark mood like a much-needed bolt of sunlight.

“You are obviously endangered,” he said, settling himself into his seat. “I know you consider it coincidence, as only a proper innocent would. But there are no coincidences. Not when it comes to murder. We are here,” he said, motioning to the window. I could see that the carriage had drawn even with this new boarding house. Rain splattered against a nice sweep of front steps. Windows gleamed with welcoming gaslight.

“Hurry and unload,” Benge said. “Dinner is mandatory. I am half-starved, and I daresay you are as well.”

I was. I had forgone breakfast this morning (which, again, seems a former life!) and had been too traumatized to eat anything at all. Now that it was mentioned, hunger was sharp and overwhelming.

We unloaded quickly, the footmen shouldering my trunks and making their way through the grey rain. I was only afforded a quick meeting with the MacGregors proper. They had obviously dealt with Hyde earlier and were in no mood for his unpleasant conversation, so I was hurriedly shown my room and given directions to the parlor and dining room.

Trunks unloaded. Keys handed over. Hyde took my arm as we turned to the front door and spoke in a low tone.

“Confide nothing in the Indian,” he said tersely. “Nothing of a personal nature. The less he knows of you, the better. Tell all about the victims, certainly, but nothing of yourself.”

“All right,” I said. It was unlike Hyde to be so adamant on any topic. He seemed to read the question on my face (which, I have been told, is a fault of mine) and then sighed raggedly.

“Or tell him everything. It is nothing to me, Purefoy, only a little friendly advice. I have no idea why the Indian has taken such an interest in your situation, but it cannot be good. I, for one, would hate to be so observed by my brother and his horrid friends, but Benge is not someone you can easily dissuade. His offer of assistance is unusual, and I fear it is an attempt to alleviate his boredom. The boredom suffered by my brother and his friends is legendary. I would hate to be an amusement, so if I were you, I would keep the details of my private life to a minimum. I do not see you confiding in Mr. Whitcomb at our Thursday dinners.”

BOOK: The Curious Steambox Affair
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