by Robert Bloch
"What further news might you have of your client Dr. Jekyll?"
Utterson shrugged, his expression unchanging. "None whatsoever. I assure you, had I obtained the slightest word, you and your superiors at Scotland Yard would have immediately been informed."
Newcomen's nod brushed the reply aside. "What have you done to locate him?"
Again Utterson shrugged. "I should think that question should be best addressed to you. As an officer of the law the apprehension of missing persons falls under your jurisdiction rather than mine. You have powers and facilities not available to a private citizen such as myself. And if you cannot find him—"
"Hard words, Mr. Utterson. I grant we haven't located Dr. Jekyll as yet, but that we shall, given the proper information. Which leads me to another question."
"Yes?"
"Why did you sack Dr. Jekyll’s household staff?"
"I should think the reason would be obvious," the solicitor said. "As Dr. Jekyll’s counselor I see no point in maintaining unnecessary expense and have therefore closed the house pending his return."
"Why didn't you inform Scotland Yard of this decision?"
"Because I felt it to be none of their concern." Now there was the slightest hint of defiance in Utterson's voice. "Not to put too fine a point on it, it is the concern of Scotland Yard to find Dr. Jekyll and you have failed."
"Perhaps that could have been avoided if there'd been a chance to question those servants at greater length. I'm particularly interested in Jekyll's butler and the footman. If you'd supply me with their present addresses—"
"I'm afraid that is impossible," Utterson said. "At the time of their employment, all of Dr. Jekyll's household staff resided on the premises, and I did not regard it as a matter of concern as to where they might have removed themselves following their dismissal."
"I see." Newcomen nodded. "But I suggest to you that there's another explanation. If it was to someone's interest, the servants could have been paid off to disappear and avoid questions."
Utterson half rose from his chair, right hand curling to form a fist. "Are you accusing me of obstructing justice?"
"Only an observation, if you take my meaning, sir."
"Then be so good as to consider this." Utterson sank back into his seat but there was open anger in his voice now. "Both my friendship and my professional relationship with Dr. Jekyll extend to a period of over twenty years. No one is more desirous of ascertaining his present whereabouts and receiving assurance of his well-being."
"In that case, sir, you may be able to help us."
"In what way?"
"I'd be greatly obliged to see a copy of Dr. Jekyll's will."
Utterson stiffened. "But that's impossible!"
"Is it?" Newcomen spoke quietly, choosing his words with care. "I've made inquiries and have been told there are two ways to go about it. Either you permit me to glance over the document here or I get a warrant for that purpose, in which case the contents will become public knowledge."
"You leave me no choice."
Utterson rose, and went to the door; drawing it open, he summoned Guest. After heeding instructions issued in a voice scarcely above the level of a whisper, the clerk departed, presently to return with the desired instrument.
Thereupon he withdrew, and Utterson, making no attempt to disguise his reluctance, extended the document to Inspector Newcomen.
"You hold in your hands," he said, "the last will and testament of Henry Jekyll, M.D., D.C.L., L.L.D., F.R.S., et cetera. Note that it is in holograph form; a comparison with other examples of Dr. JekylFs handwriting will attest to its authenticity. Its brevity is self-apparent. As to its contents . . ."
He did not complete his sentence, for the inspector was already reading, brow furrowed in concentration. Utterson retreated behind his desk and resumed his place there, awaiting the moment when Newcomen concluded his perusal.
When the inspector glanced up again his eyes and voice conveyed open accusation. "He wrote this will without consulting you?" he said.
"Quite so," Utterson replied.
Newcomen glanced down, scanning as he spoke. "I gather that in case of his decease or disappearance or absence lasting more than three months, all of Dr. Jekyll's possessions were to pass to the hands of—what's the way he puts it?—his friend and benefactor Edward Hyde."
"That is correct."
"I notice from the date that this was drawn up over a year ago.
"That too is correct. Have you any reason to question the date of its execution?"
Newcomen shook his head. "When it was made out is a minor matter." He leaned forward, tapping the page as he spoke. "What I would like to know is when Dr. Jekyll crossed out the name of Edward Hyde as a beneficiary and substituted a new heir—John Gabriel Utterson."
The solicitor met his gaze without flinching but his voice, when he replied, lacked resolution. "I don't have that information," he said. "The change had been made before the will was placed in my possession." He gestured quickly. "Again, if you compare, there's no doubt that the change has been written in his own hand."
"Voluntarily?"
"As I told you, the substitution occurred prior to my receiving the document. You have my word on it."
"I'd take more comfort in Dr. Jekyll's word," the inspector said.
"It's true, I swear it!" Utterson exclaimed.
"Very well, sir." The police officer's tone softened; he could afford to be charitable in this instance since the answer to the next question he proposed would be of considerably greater importance. "But can you also swear that Dr. Jekyll is still alive?"
"I tell you I do not know—"
Ignoring the attempt to answer, Newcomen assailed the solicitor once again. "Have you reason to believe him dead or are you merely trying to convince the authorities so you can inherit his estate?"
Utterson shook his head. "Do you take me for a fool? If this was my intention, I would have found some excuse for not showing you the will. And now that you have seen it I refer you to the stipulation that I could take full possession of the property three months after Dr. Jekyll's disappearance, should his absence continue. As we both know, I have made no move to do so. Let me repeat, Henry Jekyll and I have been close friends for many years and I want no part of his money or possessions."
The waiting game. Inspector Newcomen nodded, more in response to his own thought than to Utterson's protestations. A cunning man of law—and wasn't this a description of the entire breed?—would do just that. He'd wait it out until all suspicions were quieted and the investigation itself was filed and forgotten. Then he could safely claim his lawful or unlawful inheritance, whichever the case might be.
"You doubt my assurance?" Utterson said. "Very well. I am prepared to offer proof."
"Of what nature, might I ask?"
"Some while ago I recalled a conversation with Poole, Dr. Jekyll's butler. In the course of our exchange he stated in passing that his master had once referred to his family connections, mentioning that he had distant relatives in Canada."
"Did he mention any names?"
"He did not. But indeed if such relatives exist, then it is my honest intention to see to it that they, rather than myself, become the inheritors of the estate. To that end I placed this advertisement in a number of Canadian newspapers." As he spoke, the lawyer opened the drawer of the desk before him and withdrew two items, which he placed on the desktop for Newcomen's inspection. One was a large sheet of foolscap on which was a list of a dozen Canadian newspapers, together with their addresses. The other was a clipping of the actual advertising notice reproduced in print.
"This is from the Toronto press, I believe," Utterson said. "I can furnish you with copies from other sources, together with correspondence dealing with their placement."
The inspector nodded but did not break his silence as he scanned the printed item. He rioted how cleverly it was worded; nothing was said that could lead a reader to believe Dr. Jekyll dead, but the implication
was there. A Canadian relative, however distant, might well reckon it worthwhile to respond. No doubt about it, Utterson was a clever man— clever even to the point of withholding his own involvement in the matter and soliciting that replies be dispatched to Robert Guest, his clerk.
As he finished reading, Newcomen glanced up. "Any answers?" he asked.
"Not as yet," Utterson said. "But I still have hope, and should I be in receipt of any reply, I assure you—"
"Of course." The inspector gestured quickly. There was no further need to continue badgering Mr. Utterson, at least not at this moment. For the present he was more than satisfied.
He took his departure quickly, leaving Utterson reassured. As for himself he wanted only to be alone with his thoughts. Utterson's disclosures required a bit of mulling over, and it had best be done at once.
Canadian relatives. The placing of that advertising notice opened up a whole new area of speculation.
Should such Canadian family members exist, they might have knowledge of Dr. JekylPs wealth. If so, it was even possible that someone could have made a trip to London in secret with the purpose of doing away with him in order to gain so sizable an inheritance. In which case it might be expected that the perpetrator of such a deed would now reappear again in the guise of an heir.
No doubt about it, the advertising notice could serve as bait, and if someone answered and appeared, Inspector Newcomen would be waiting.
All that remained was to set the proper trap.
Chapter 3
Did it ever do anything but rain in London? The lash of a quite severe storm struck against the grimy windowpane, washing soot down in tracks. Hester had come to believe that this sprawling city was the dirtiest she had ever had the misfortune to see. Down on the street, carts and, here and there, a genteel barouche or cab, sent liquid black mud flying, much of it at those condemned by some misfortune to plod two-footed through the gloom. She had been excited earlier by the wonder of the new electric lights that gave sparks of radiance along some streets. But now even those miracles of men's ingenuity were no longer novelties.
Dreary as the outside world seemed from her window in Mrs. Carruthers's boarding house, it was better to stay gazing into that murk than to look behind her into the barren, musty-smelling, chilly room. Her worn purse lay upon the bed and she knew just how much was in it and how far that could stretch even by most heroic efforts at semi-starvation. At least in the past she had never had to scant on meals, even though the dishes served had been of the plainest kinds. What did one do when there was no more money?
Appeal to Lady Ames? She recoiled from that idea, which struck at her again and again. Surely there was some honest way of earning her living instead of groveling—there must be! Cold as it was there was a bright flush of color on Hester's cheeks.
No—she refused to let the darkness of the day dim her hopes. Not when she had this! She swept away from the window and picked up the letter that had come by second post. A letter from an editor!
She read the letter again. Miss Agatha Scrimshaw would see her at ten precisely this morning. While she had been with Lady Ames she had seen, and then got Kitty to smuggle to her, the current copy of The British Lady, Though that publication was considered "advanced" and sometimes very close to the line of being unacceptable in polite drawing rooms. Lady Ames dearly loved a lord, as the old saying went, and the fact that the editor, Miss Scrimshaw, was of an old family, being granddaughter to an earl, and having her own lines of information running into court circles no less, made it a publication that could be mined for some tidbits of news which never touched real scandal, of course, but allowed the reader the feeling of moving among the elect. Those articles written by Miss Scrimshaw herself, dealing with such questionable ideas as the higher education of women, the need for considering the unhappy state of females beneath the notice of anyone truly well born, could be easily skipped.
It had been those articles and not the light chitchat that had attracted Hester, and she had thought several times that in a different sort of a world, she might have been able to use her own education, acquired privately though it was, for some justifiable purpose.
She dressed carefully. Though with only the well-worn waterproof cape to abet her umbrella, she could hardly present a figure to rival the fashionable ladies portrayed in the pages of the publication whose outer gate she was about to storm.
As she pulled wet-weather boots over her feet she thought that at least she had made a good usage of her time as governess. Even Lady Ames could not scorn or consider unnecessary to the education of young ladies visits to places of historic note as recommended by the most discreet books of travel knowledge. Thus almost at once on her arrival Hester had set herself to the memorization of routes to such parts of London as she thought would be important in her own future plans.
Of course, it was true that there was much of the city into which a lady did not venture at all. Probably she should use some form of transportation, but a cab fare was too crippling to be considered now. The startling new electric omnibus did not carry passengers from this part of the city. Luckily she considered herself a good walker and she had seen quite respectable-looking females trudging under umbrellas, striving to remain clear of the showers of sludge that carriage wheels dislodged.
She gave one last lingering critical look into the dim mirror. Her hair was sternly pinned into complete obedience under the brim of the plain weather-resistant hat that had faced the storms of Canada for more than one season, and she was smoothly buttoned into the basque of her shabby black dress. The skirt had no ruffles and was almost too scant. All in all, she decided, she did not look even as smart as an upper housemaid on her afternoon off. Would the all-seeing Miss Scrimshaw think the worse of her because the package she was offering was wrapped so shabbily? High-mindedness often allied itself purposefully with dowdiness— as if there were some rule that one could not have both a useful mind and a pleasing outward appearance. She could only hope that Miss Scrimshaw was a convert to that way of thinking.
By the time she reached the street the drive of rain had ceased its first fury and settled into a steady downpour. Damp chill reached through her cumbersome weather coat and, in spite of all her efforts, there were streaks of mud about the hem of her skirt. She huddled in the doorway of the building she had sought, and made two futile attempts to erase the worst of the streaks with one of her father's large square handkerchiefs that she had kept for such usage.
There were stairs to be climbed, the drip of her umbrella pattering on each as she went. Then she was facing an open door of what was plainly an office. There was no one at the desk within so she hesitated for a moment or two before she entered. She seated herself on the hard cushionless settle on the outer side of a railing that appeared to divide the world from the inner workings of The British Lady,
It was not until she was seated that she became aware that the inner door beyond the rail stood ajar and she could hear voices—both of them raised in argument.
The low, almost growling voice appeared to be in command; the second was even lower in tone, as if its owner fought for a temper-keeping modulation.
". . . of the lowest sort." The lower voice was climbing higher.
"You're not being asked to live with them, gel. You will have an introduction to Captain Ellison and she will tell you to go where you can observe."
"Everyone knows they are thieves and murderers, drunkards, and—and worse! This so-called army is interested only in such. No lady would even read about them, let alone become an actual witness to report some degrading scene!"
There followed a rustling of paper and the more forceful voice sounded as if it were now engaged in reading aloud.
"'Her Grace was most charmingly dressed in a muted melody of lavender and voilet shades. The well-known splendor of the Evedor pearls shone softly, like precious dewdrops, about her throat, on the bosom of her gown, about her fragile wrists. The tiara that is the crowning piece of this fa
mous jewel collection found a perfect setting in her sable ringlets. She was the center of a gay party from the Evedor Towers, and it is well known that this coming season will see Evedor House once more opened to the polite world when Her Grace introduces her eldest daughter, Lady Maude Evedor, into society.' Pish!"
"But Miss Scrimshaw!" There was outrage in that interruption. "The Evedors are one of the oldest families in— “
"Old? And has being longtime masters of a strip of ground ever made a family worthy of being really counted? Do you know, gel, that living on the duke's own estate are a gamekeeper and a groom whose families date back at least five generations before the time old Sir Simon Evedor diddled the first manor out of James—and in not a particularly pleasant way, either! The Evedors started marrying wealth about the same time they achieved landed status and have been noted for their luck in the matter of snaffling at least one wealthy bride in a generation. For the rest, what do they really do? The present duke sits in the House of Lords, ready with a firm no in answer to the least sign of any progressive thinking. He never opens his mouth otherwise.
"No, it is not the duke, the duchess, and their ilk that are important now. Rather it is what is going on below, a good couple of flights below their airy perch."
"But,"—the second voice had now regained some courage—"our readers want to hear about the duchesses and the gowns and the parties. There were at least twenty write-ins in response to the account of the Howe-Ainsworthys' marriage."
"Very true," conceded the other. "Oh, we'll continue to supply the pap. Mainly because we can always hope that one or two of those avid readers will turn a page and find some more forceful meat. And meat has to be hunted, Dale."
"I can't! I just can't go to one of those meetings!" What little courage that voice had held earlier was gone now. "No lady would do it. If I did, and it were known, I never could get within the gates of a decent house again!"
"But do you, Dale?" There was a braying sound that Hester could not accept as a laugh. "I think most of your 'facts' come out of the mouths of ladies' maids and sometimes at a rather stiff rate. No, it's time you got out in the real world—think about it, gel."