by Robert Bloch
It occurred to Newcomen that the bed in question was the one occupied by her late husband at the time he met his death; as such, hardly the place in which to seek comfort and consolation. Still, he supposed one had to make the best of it, and Mrs. Poole could hardly be expected to sleep on the floor. Somehow, despite its tragedies, life goes on.
And so did the neighbor lady who informed him of these circumstances. Or would have gone on and on if the inspector hadn't cut her short, thanked her, and made his departure. He had no time to waste on gossip and hearsay; tomorrow morning there'd be a coroner's inquest from which the facts might be forthcoming.
Autopsy reports, official findings of police officers at the scene of the crime, answers to questions addressed to Mrs. Poole under oath—this was the stuff clues were made of. Despite the ongoing petty rivalries between Metropolitan and City police, formal inquest proceedings were open to the public and Newcomen intended to be present even if only in the role of a private citizen.
It was not meant to be. Unfortunately, in his role as inspector he spent the morning of the inquest in the apprehension and detention of one Archibald Hix, who had been discovered jimmying open the rear door of a haberdashery just off Regent Street. The arrest itself was a simple matter; not so, however, the tedious paperwork required thereafter. And by the time Newcomen was free to extract the watch from his vest pocket, the inquest was long over.
Allowing for the equally tedious task of transcribing its findings at City Police Headquarters, Newcomen realized he must somehow contain himself for yet another day until he could hope to secure a copy.
This he somehow managed to do, and on the afternoon of the day following, paid a call to Old Jewry Street, identified himself, and received a transcript grudgingly given.
The findings of one Dr. Angus Blystone were, as might have been anticipated, of little help. The deceased had suffered a fractured skull—Newcomen made no effort to set down the sawbones' medical Latin—contusions on and about the face and neck, plus broken bones in both arms, the fingers of his right hand, and the rib cage. The immediate cause of death was a massive cerebral hemorrhage at the point where the skull had been crushed by a blow or blows from an unspecified blunt object or instrument.
Meaning they didn't know a bloody thing about what had happened, or how. Newcomen scowled to himself as he read the familiar phrases woven to form a threadbare but convenient cloak for ignorance.
Only two brief bits of testimony from the City detectives offered some slight enlightenment. The first reported the presence of bloodstains on the upper surface of the shabby sheet that did double duty as a bedspread. The second involved the absence of anything that might have served as the murder weapon.
Presence —the murderer had surprised Poole and probably struck the first blows even as he awakened; then, staggering upright, he was battered to the floor.
Absence —the murderer came armed, or else had found something in the room for use as a weapon and subsequently carried it away upon departure.
But when asked, Mrs. Poole had been unable to specify that anything was missing that might have served a deadly purpose. For that matter, when asked, Mrs. Poole was not too specific about anything.
Newcomen's frown deepened as he went over her answers given at the inquest, which did little to augment what the newspapers had already reported. No, she could not account for her late husband's depressed state nor his recent overindulgence in drink except that both seemed the result of losing his position. No, they hadn't quarreled. No, Edgar didn't have an enemy in the world.
And no, Newcomen told himself, it couldn't be that much of a mystification. There had to be more to it than that, and she had to know more than that. Or at least suspect.
Death at the hand of person or persons unknown. The expected verdict that didn't explain the unexpected, the answer that resolved no questions. Thus the law simply washed its hands of the matter without removing the bloodstains.
Again Newcomen stared down at his hastily scrawled notes. Something about them jarred his memory. Of course—it was almost like the Carew case. Sir Danvers Carew had been murdered on a public thoroughfare, Edgar Poole in a private residence; one victim was a member of the aristocracy and the other a discharged manservant. But the similarities were there. A sudden surprise attack without apparent reason. Death from a blunt instrument—in Carew's case, a cane that had been broken and left at the spot where the onslaught occurred. But in the assault on Poole a similar weapon could well have been used without breaking, whereupon the murderer merely carried it away with him.
There was, of course, an important difference between the two affairs. In the first, testimony from an actual witness identified the perpetrator of the crime as Edward Hyde. But Edward Hyde was dead. Other later witnesses had identified his corpse. He could not have risen to kill again.
That left only one more link, and a slim one. Both Carew and Poole had a common enemy in the late Mr. Hyde. And both had a connection, personal or professional, with Hyde's former friend Dr. Henry Jekyll. Dr. Jekyll, who might be described as the late or the former himself, for all Newcomen might know.
All he might know indeed, but not all he wanted to know, which was precisely the point—there must be something else, had to be.
It was in his office that the inspector's ruminations were interrupted by the arrival of a uniformed runner from downstairs who presented him with a missive received in the last delivery of the day's post. The envelope addressed to him contained only a brief note bearing the signature of Robert Guest, writing at the behest of his employer, Utterson, but its message erased Newcomen's frown.
Utterson was inquiring if it might be possible for the inspector to wait upon him tomorrow afternoon at three? If so, he would have the opportunity of meeting Miss Hester Lane, a relative of Henry Jekyll's who had recently arrived from Canada.
Recently arrived? Now there was something to chew on. Had she been here when Poole died? Did she know the whereabouts of Dr. Jekyll? In any event he was grateful for Utterson's invitation. Barring the unforeseen, he intended to have a bit of a chat with this recent arrival.
But that would be tomorrow's business. Right now his watch was ticking closer to the hour and a glance through the begrimed windowpane confirmed the imminence of seven o'clock.
Seven o'clock and all was well; Jerry was waiting, nodding down at him as he approached the curb. One minute later, and all was confusion.
"She wants to see me?" Newcomen said. "Tonight?"
"That's wot she said to tell you. I popped around there on the orf-chance abaht an 'our ago when I dropped a fare at Liverpool Station. Says she's sorry she wasn't up to seem' you earlier, but better late than never."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Jerry shrugged. "She diden' say right out. I reckern there might be somefink she 'eld back at the inquest an' naow she's 'aving second thorghts."
The inspector wasted no further time in reckoning for himself. Once he was in the cab they circumnavigated the square to Lord Nelson's stony satisfaction and headed toward the Strand. Newcomen's mounting anticipation made the journey seem to last forever; he urged Jerry, who in turn urged the horse, and the cab rolled through the roiling traffic of Fleet Street.
When at last they arrived, Newcomen found the quiet he had expected to encounter earlier in the week. "Wait here," he told the cabby, then hurried inside.
Three minutes later he was seated in the parlor with Poole's widow. The former Nell Curtis was a mousy little woman whose straight brown hair was streaked with gray. She was wearing mourning, and its bleak blackness accentuated the pallor of her haggard face. But her welcome seemed sincere and Newcomen thought he could detect relief in her eyes and voice as their conversation began.
"Yer the one 'oo come 'ere to see my 'usband the night 'e was buckled?" she said.
Newcomen nodded.
"Nart in any trouble, was 'e?"
"None that I know about. All I wanted was a chat. Jerry c
an tell you that."
"So 'e did." As she spoke, the widow's eyes narrowed in calculating scrutiny. "But 'e ain't telling wot you'd be chatting abaout."
"That's because he doesn't know." The inspector leaned forward. "Anything that passed between your late husband and myself was to be strictly a private matter."
There was a moment of silence as the diminutive woman weighed the big man's words. When she spoke again her stare was less intent, but there was still an edge of suspicion in her voice. "'Aow do I know I can trust a rozzer?"
Newcomen shrugged. "For what it's worth, you have my word."
"Meaning this weren't go no further?" she said.
"No further than me. The City police are in charge here. That's why I wasn't allowed to see you at their headquarters. And that's why I won't be running to them with what you tell me tonight."
"Wot if I was to tell you somefink I din't let on at the inkques'?" Again she hesitated. "Mind you, I ain't sayin' as 'aow I will—"
"No need." Newcomen permitted himself a smile that was both solicitous and self-congratulatory. "That's why you were disposed to see me."
"Been 'eavy on me mind ever since it 'appened." The widow shook her head. "City police—they treat you like dirt, comin' at you wiv questions day 'an night. Good thing I 'ad witnesses, or like as not they'd 'ave me take the drop for pore Edgar's murder. Fine lot o' ruddy blaggards if you ask me, 'an them as 'eld the inkques' was the worst." She gripped the arms of her chair, knuckles whitening.
Inspector Newcomen spoke softly. "So you got angry and rattled and didn't tell them all you knew," he said. "Now it's a case of second thoughts, because you want to find your husband's murderer."
"Can you?"
"I can't promise anything until I hear what you have to say." Newcomen gestured. "Before we get to that I'm minded to ask a question or two first. And I'll want the truth."
"Do me best."
"I understand your husband had been feeling poorly these past months. Started when he lost his position, eh?"
"Oh no, sir!" Mrs. Poole shook her head. "Edgar weren't 'isself for a longish time afore that."
"When did you notice anything was wrong?"
The widow frowned thoughtfully. "'Ard to say. 'E seemed right as rain up 'til Dr. Jekyll got too friendly-like with that 'Yde bloke."
"Edward Hyde." The chair creaked beneath him as the big man leaned still farther forward. "Did you know the man?"
"Never set eyes on 'im. Used 'is own key for Dr. Jekyll's private quarters, so's to come an' go as 'e pleased."
"But your husband knew him. Did he ever say anything about Mr. Hyde to you?"
"Only that 'e was an ugly customer, one as Dr. Jekyll would best be rid of."
"And did he?"
"Did 'e wot?"
"Did Dr. Jekyll murder Mr. Hyde?" Newcomen's eyes were intent upon her face. "Straight out now. Did he?"
"'Ow can you say such a thing? Dr. Jekyll was a proper gentleman, alius kindly disposed, Gawd rest 'is soul—"
"God rest his soul." The inspector's voice boomed its echo. "Do you think he's dead?"
"Edgar did." The widow nodded quickly. "'E reckoned 'Yde made away with the doctor an' then finished 'isself orf." She grimaced. "Narsty piece o' work that was. Edgar saw the body. 'E really took it 'ard, even afore we was sacked. I 'ad the feelin' Edgar was chuffed to get away from that 'ouse. But arter that it was all downhill, wot wiv the nightmares an' the drink—"
"Pity." Newcomen spoke softly. "A great pity, as I well know." He paused. "What I don't know are the things you didn't tell them about at the inquest."
Mrs. Poole sighed. "Per'aps it's best left at that."
"Not if you want to bring justice to whoever killed your husband." Studying her reaction as he spoke, the inspector modulated his voice to a confidential whisper. "Now that the inquest is over you can't expect much more from the City police. They've got other fish to fry. Which means this business is strictly between the two of us."
Mrs. Poole hesitated. "But you scarce knew Edgar! Wot's yer concern?"
Now it was Newcomen's turn to hesitate as he pondered his reply. Telling her his real reason would be a gamble, but as the saying has it, in for a penny, in for a pound. "Truth is, I've a notion the murderer of your husband might be connected with the death or disappearance of Dr. Jekyll. And with your help, I intend to find out."
Mrs. Poole nodded, then leaned forward, speaking in low tones. "The glass," she said. "I din't tell them that part."
The inspector frowned. "I read your statement at the inquest. You said the window had been broken."
"But I left out abaout 'earing it. I give the front door a right proper slam when I come in. No one else paid 'eed so I figger as 'aow they'd not 'ear what I 'eard on me way down the 'all."
"The sound of the window-glass being smashed in your bedroom?"
"More of a tinkle, you might say. Winder weren't locked—I reckon the glass broke when it was forced up too 'igh. Cracked and fell on the floor in smallish pieces, bits and slivers all over the place—"
"Stow your gab, woman!" Newcomen's voice boomed out before he could control it, nor did he attempt to. "You're telling me your husband's murderer was still present when you arrived?"
Mrs. Poole shook her head. "Give me a miss by seconds, must 'ave popped aout the winder when I opened the front door."
The inspector sat back, and when he spoke the sharp edge of his voice was dulled by disappointment. "Then you didn't see him."
Again the widow shook her head. "Not in the room. Seein' pore Edgar give me a fair turn, it did, but one look and I knowed 'e done for. Then I 'ears noises from outside the winder—like someone runnin' up the alleyway. That's when I stuck me 'ead aout to take a look. No light in the passage, mind you, and all I 'ad was the one glimpse afore the thing went 'round the far corner. Then I let out a scream—"
"Get on with it!" The inspector's voice was sharp again. "What did he look like?"
"Pore Edgar use to say it give 'im the 'orrors to see Dr. Jekyll's friend."
"Edward Hyde?"
"One and the same." She nodded. "But what puts it to mind is 'ow 'e spoke of Mr. 'Yde. Didn't once say °e'—only 4 it.' Like 'Yde weren't even 'uman." Her eyes flickered into an awareness and a hint of apprehension crept into her voice. "I never took 'is meaning until I saw that thing in the alley, running all twisted and hunched over—"
The inspector nodded quickly. "Some kind of cripple?"
"It moved too fast for that." She gazed directly at New-comen, pouring forth the fear in her eyes. "I 'ope and pray you can find the murderer. But don't look for a man, Inspector—look for a creature."
Chapter 6
Hester read over the much-creased list again and then surveyed the clothing she had hunted out to try to conform with instructions. It was both exciting and a bit troubling to think that her first essay into the writing world would come from acting a part. The more the day wore on the uneasier she felt. Or maybe pan of it was sheer hunger. She had a bun and tea— what Mrs. Carruthers considered a suitable breakfast for a lady boarder. It had been brought to her by Dorry, the weak-chinned, slack-mouthed maid-of-all-work—and work she did, all of it, under the eye of Cook. Cooks, Hester had learned at the Ames household, were exalted personages with an unending series of privileges, some of which even the housekeeper, or that supreme being the butler, could not challenge.
Anyway there had been a bun (two days old at least) with a miserable scrape of butter, and tea (weak and tepid) for her. As an added aggravation the entrancing smell of bacon seeped up the back stairway, with just a suggestion of well-toasted bread. Mrs. Carruthers's two male boarders were, respectively, her son and her nephew, and of course everyone understood that a gentleman needed sustenance in plenty to prepare him for the labors of the day.
A bun and tea for breakfast and nothing for lunch, since she had not kept the proper hours and Cook did—the table was bare by the time Hester returned. She wished she had courage enough t
o stop at one of the noisy street stalls to buy a mug of what was called coffee and a potato bursting out of its skin, needing only salt and butter to make it a feast. However, it seemed that the stalls were also refreshment centers for the male sex, and, independent though she had always deemed herself to be, Hester had not had the audacity to eat and drink right on the street with perhaps a goodly portion of London watching her.
What Hester would like from Dorry now was not food but clothes. Miss Scrimshaw had been very clear on the point that she should dress down for this assignment, for though Hester would be there under the guidance of Miss Scrimshaw's acquaintance, she could not mingle properly unless she was shabby—more shabby than ordinary. She knew by the time Miss Scrimshaw had finished with orders, advice, and the list Hester now held, that she was indeed about to enter a new world.
Dorry's street clothes, if that poor thing ever had an afternoon or evening off (which Hester doubted), might be a dress suitable for the darker side of London. Unfortunately, there was no possible way of obtaining the use of such. The very asking would create a storm as wild as one of the wintry blasts back home.
She was startled out of imagining just what Mrs. Car-ruthers would say if she heard of such a request when there was a tap at the door.
Her landlady stood outside, holding a square envelope, decorated by a blob of red sealing wax, between two pudgy fingers.
"Message for you, Miss Lane, sent around by hand— must be important."
"Thank you, Mrs. Carruthers." Hester accepted the envelope. Apparently Mrs. Carruthers's curiosity was one of her prominent character traits, for she was making no move to retire. There was no outer subscription except Hester's name—how tantalizing it must be. Hester's hand closed firmly on the doorknob. "Thank you, Mrs. Carruthers," she repeated in a slightly louder tone. With an offended sniff the landlady turned toward the stairs.