by Robert Bloch
And it was indifference to which Bramwell Booth now addressed himself—the indifference of the powerful and wealthy who refused to relinquish either a whit of their wealth or a portion of their power on behalf of the impoverished and oppressed.
Yes, it was true that the homeless and the orphaned could seek refuge in the workhouse, but here again the conditions he described were virtually beyond belief. Hester listened, horrified at what she heard, simply because her own limited experiences vouched for the truth of his words.
It was the intention of the Army, said the chief of staff, to provide for the homeless, and to enlist both public and private financing to that end. At present, reliance was still largely placed upon the assistance of volunteers who opened their homes and hearts to give shelter to those who might otherwise fall prey to the perils of the street. Yes, he was in hopes that those assembled here this evening might heed his plea for funds. But everyone, rich or poor, young and old alike, could heed a greater and even more urgent plea.
To those physically capable he issued a call for volunteer services for assistance in the many tasks that the Army alone could perform. And it fell to the lot of all to join him in the fight against public indifference, to aid by word if not in deed.
Oratory was succeeded by ovation, ovation in turn by donation as uniformed Army enlistees moved down the aisles and extended tambourines to be passed along each row of spectators until, weighted with contributions, they reached the hands of another Army member at the far end.
Hester was in no position to give anything but silent thanks for the fact that she was occupying the rear row, where her dereliction from donation could not be widely observed. In her present circumstances a contribution was out of the question, and once she had passed the upended tambourine along to her neighbor, she rose hastily and moved toward the exit.
Others from rows below her own were already beginning to crowd the aisle behind her and it was from their ranks that the call echoed.
"Miss Lane!"
Startled, Hester turned to see a familiar figure moving toward her through the crush of the crowd behind. Even in this initial moment of surprise she noted how he progressed without rudely elbowing others aside; it was as though they recognized an authority in his bearing that caused them to make way. Moses parting the Red Sea, she told herself. Or had it been God?
No matter—Albeit Prothore was neither.
The smartly dressed young man reached her side just as she emerged into the corridor beyond the auditorium. Taking her arm, he led her to the far wall beneath the stairwell, which afforded shelter from the movement of the crowd.
Plucked from anonymity and subjected to Prothore's scrutiny, Hester was suddenly sharply aware of her drab appearance. Was she forever fated to meet him when clad in so unbecoming a fashion?
Not that it made any difference, she hastily reminded herself. She was suitably and sensibly dressed for this particular occasion. God and Moses would understand; as for Albert Prothore, it was none of his business.
Apparently he thought otherwise. "I must own this is a most unexpected meeting," he was saying. "After your experiences the other evening, I did not presume you would be rash enough to repeat the indiscretion. You gave me your word—"
"I did no such thing!" Hester, conscious of temper on the rise, paused for an instant, then continued in more modulated tones. "And my presence at a public meeting can hardly be termed an indiscretion."
"Then might I be so bold as to inquire why you are here?" Prothore said.
"I should think the reason is obvious enough. I am writing an article about this meeting for The British Lady."
"But that's impossible." Albert Prothore shook his head. "Aunt Agatha gave me that assignment this afternoon. She said there would be no further need for your services."
Stunned, for a moment Hester's only response was a speechless stare to meet and match his own.
Neither of them observed another's stare embracing both. Watching them unobtrusively from the nearby doorway was Inspector Newcomen.
Chapter 11
“Surely the vagaries of Fate are beyond comprehension." Despite the twilight chill of her room that numbed Hester's fingers, her pen moved swiftly across the paper.
"This morning I was so distressed that I could not bring myself to write of the misfortunes that had befallen me." Hester paused momentarily to grant another transfusion of ink to her pen. "Suffice to say that my account of Mrs. Kirby's shelter for homeless children was summarily rejected. And last night my attempts to gather material for another article proved fruitless when I discovered Mr. Prothore had been given that assignment."
Once more Hester dipped her pen. As she did so she mentally reviewed her encounter with Sir John Dermond's parliamentary secretary. It developed that Prothore was not attending the meeting merely to accommodate Miss Scrimshaw; his actual employer, Sir John, was pressing him to investigate the problems of the slums.
This disclosure had not been forthcoming until she was already in the cab, homeward bound, again at Prothore's insistence. During the journey he expressed himself regarding the meeting, his views differing widely from her own.
Disgusting. Bilge. Sheer twaddle. Tommyrot. Although lacking his aunt Agatha's talent for invective, he managed to convey distaste with equal ease. Bramwell Booth was dismissed as a sanctimonious hypocrite or else a pious nincompoop, as were all who presumed to meddle in such matters. The problems of poverty were meant for the consideration of economists, not amateur theologians. For that matter he didn't approve of political intervention; his own employer was keen to learn about conditions solely to exploit such information and further the Liberal cause in Parliament. As for his disapproval of Hester's activity—
Hester put her pen aside. The gesture was abrupt but decisive.
Had she been able to confide in her journal earlier today, she would probably have set down everything in detail, but now there was no longer any need to do so. In fact, there was no question of need at all, thanks to those selfsame vagaries of Fate to which she had previously alluded.
Why write of yesterday when it was today that really mattered? This noon, to be exact; high noon, coinciding with the height of her own anxieties. The fix she was in had her literally pacing the floor when Dorry arrived with the notice summoning her to Mr. Utterson's office, at her earliest convenience.
The message had been delivered by a cabby who was still waiting, either for a reply or for her accommodation as a passenger on the return journey to Turk's Court. Hester gave Dorry instructions; the cabman was to continue waiting and she would join him presently.
"Presently" proved to be a matter of some few minutes, during which Hester hurriedly donned the one properly becoming outfit she had not worn on her previous meeting with the solicitor. Whether the prospect of this coming visit boded well or ill, she would at least confront it while wearing her Sunday best. Perhaps a change for the better in her appearance augured a change for the better in her fortunes. Then again, she vaguely recalled reading a volume from her father's library that described the care Marie Antoinette lavished upon her dress just before she was escorted to the guillotine.
No matter, she was on her way. The early afternoon sunshine danced and dazzled over the dome of St. Paul's, and pigeons soared above the battlements of the Tower. Hester made a mental resolve to visit both of these London landmarks at, as Mr. Utterson would put it, her earliest convenience.
But what if there was no convenience in her future? As of this moment her worldly possessions consisted of an inadequate wardrobe, a meager assortment of personal effects—all worthless, save for her watch—and barely four shillings in cash. Perhaps Mr. Utterson's invitation indicated an intention to improve her resources. Or was it actually a summons to wait upon Inspector Newcomen?
Recollection of the big man's suspicions and the authority with which he could implement them dimmed the sunshine's dazzlement, and for a moment the thought of poor Marie Antoinette crossed her mind again
.
Hester dismissed the conceit with a shrug. She was hardly a tragic figure, let alone a queen, and this conveyance was certainly not a tumbril.
Once more Hester contemplated the vagaries of Fate. Like father, like daughter, she told herself. Was it not the very mystery that Father unknowingly sought to solve by his earnest examination of Good and Evil? All those letters to learned professors and philosophers in faraway places, all those personal consultations with clergymen, and with what result? His verdict was that pure goodness, like pure evil, could not be proven to exist in any manifest form.
Which meant, when carried to its logical conclusion, that there was neither a God nor a Devil to rule or motivate mankind. They were personifications of forces that in reality were not separated but intermingled. And the true and only name for such forces was Fate.
Hester shook her head. Strange thoughts for a sunny afternoon. And she was by no means certain of her conclusions. Surely the learned professors and philosophers would disapprove, and the clergy cringe, at such blasphemy. What Father himself might say she would never know. But then there were so many things that Father had left unsaid. It was for those very reasons that she now found herself in her present circumstances, on her way to a meeting that might well determine the course of her future. Such indeed were the vagaries of Fate.
Her actual arrival at Mr. Utterson's office was scarcely the stuff of high drama. Again it was the ubiquitous clerk, Mr. Guest, who greeted her and paid the cabby, then guided her to the inner sanctum of his employer.
To Hester's considerable relief, the lawyer awaited her alone; there was no sign of Inspector Newcomen's presence unless, of course, he had chosen to conceal himself in the closet.
But that was nonsense. And it was obvious from Mr. Utterson's greeting and expression that this was meant to be a serious occasion. Or was it merely that her own somewhat more ladylike appearance elicited a more respectful response?
For a moment Hester flattered herself that this might indeed be the case, but if so, the solicitor abruptly corrected the notion.
Now, some several hours later, she could not recall his exact words; only the clarity of their meaning remained. Mr. Utterson had, he said, taken immediate steps to check out her claims—even to the point of contacting Major Ames by cable—and was satisfied that they were valid. His next statement she remembered verbatim.
"You are now the heir," he told her, "the sole and only heir, to Henry Jekyll's fortune."
Startled, it took several seconds before she could muster and murmur her reply. "But how do you know Dr. Jekyll is dead?"
Mr. Utterson regarded her somberly. "Because I was present when he died."
Hester leaned forward. "I thought you witnessed the death of Mr. Hyde."
"So I did." Mr. Utterson nodded. "Dr. Jekyll was Mr. Hyde."
If his previous announcement had been startling, this present statement stunned Hester to a point where she was incapable of a reply. She sat in shocked silence and it remained for the solicitor to break it with a heavy sigh.
"What I am about to tell you is a matter of strictest confidence," he said. "And before I do so it will be necessary for each of us to take an oath. Mine, which I now solemnly swear, is that I tell the truth. And in return I want your word that you never reveal what I disclose."
Hester hesitated. "You suggest we enter into a conspiracy of silence—"
"Not suggesting," Utterson said. "I am insisting upon it. As for conspiracy, I tend to find that too harsh a term. Let us instead regard it as a matter of mutual agreement."
"Can you not speak plainly?" Hester asked. "I need an assurance that there is nothing of a criminal nature involved."
The solicitor frowned. "I fear no such assurance can be granted you. Criminal acts must be spoken of—indeed, the very heart of the matter is a crime against Nature itself."
Hester sat irresolute. Why men of the law insisted upon talking in riddles was a conundrum for which she had no answer. But the riddle that Utterson presented was tantalizing, and the answer must be important.
Curiosity overcame reluctance. "You have my promise to remain silent," she said.
And silent she remained as Mr. Utterson spoke.
What he had told her loomed vivid in her memory, though his precise phrasing was clouded, very much like the sky presently visible beyond the window of her room.
Shabby as her surroundings might be, Hester was grateful for the sense of security they afforded. There had been no feeling of security in Utterson's office once he revealed the particulars of Dr. Henry Jekyll's experiments.
"Experiments." That was the term the solicitor used, but it scarcely began to describe the activities of his late client and longtime friend—activities that Utterson had never suspected.
Henry Jekyll inherited his wealth but earned his reputation, as a practicing physician and through private research into medical science. It was not until his middle years that such research resulted in a conclusion both philosophical and psychological. There was, he reasoned, a duality in man, two separate and distinct aspects of being, imprisoned in one body. Call them moral and immoral or civilized and primitive; the terms merely described polar twins perpetually warring for the control of a single bodily vestment.
The battles were continuous, the victories merely temporary and far too costly. If intellect prevailed, then instinct suffered; when flesh triumphed, spirit agonized. In either case the single mind and body that housed both forces was the ultimate victim.
Ideally, each force should inhabit a body of its own. Such was Jekyll's psychological solution to the problem. But what if there was a physiological solution as well?
As best Hester could now recall, Utterson had not described the details of the "experiments" conducted by Dr. Jekyll in his laboratory, or just when he attained final and physical proof of his theory. Whatever the occasion, the solicitor was unaware of it at the time; his only information came after Jekyll's death.
But it was principally of Mr. Hyde he spoke this afternoon; Edward Hyde, as Dr. Jekyll had christened his alter ego. The combination of chemicals ingested by the doctor did not result in the creation of a second body; instead they physically altered his own to form a more fitting receptacle for the unbridled urges of his other self. Dr. Jekyll was long familiar with the effects of various drugs upon the mind and body, but never had he dreamed of so potent a potion and so remarkable a result.
A single draught altered outward appearance: there was no recognizable resemblance between his usual self and the hirsute, dwarfish figure of Edward Hyde.
Now he was free to go his own way, as the respected and self-respecting physician, untroubled by baser thought or deed. And when upon occasion he resorted to the use of his discovery, the drug was a veritable elixir of life to Mr. Hyde, allowing him to give full rein to any impulse.
That Hyde was a being of impulse, Dr. Jekyll did not deny. Nor could he delude himself for long that Hyde was truly a creature in the lowest sense of the term, a creature devoid of conscience or compassion.
Hyde led a separate existence of his own whenever Jekyll prepared and drank the agent of transformation. But when Hyde returned, satiated, to swallow the antidote that restored Jekyll to his rightful self, the physical change did not erase memories of Hyde's deeds.
Thus Dr. Jekyll, when in his proper form, remained a prisoner of his own conscience. The freedom he had sought to achieve for beneficent usage was conferred only upon Mr. Hyde, whose purposes and practices were malign.
But the drug was powerful, and despite his knowledge of its effects, the craving for it persisted. Each time his resolution weakened, Hyde's hold on him grew stronger. In the end came a horrifying turn of events; Henry Jekyll found himself transformed into Edward Hyde without the use of the potion and without conscious volition. Increasingly he resorted to use of the antidote, which alone was capable of temporarily restoring him to the form he had once so eagerly abandoned and which now he so desperately desired to mainta
in.
And then the supply of antidote started to run out.
"He realized his danger once it was depleted," Mr. Utterson told Hester. "But despite the most frantic efforts, he was unable to replace the necessary ingredients. Now Jekyll stood doubly condemned; both as a prisoner of conscience and as a physical inmate of Hyde's body."
It was at this point in Utterson's recital that Hester broke her vow of silence. "And no one knew?" she asked.
"Such was the case," the solicitor said. "But suspicion was growing and discovery inevitable. The first to learn the truth was Jekyll's personal friend and physician, Dr. Hastie Lanyon. He confided his narrative to paper and sent it to Jekyll, warning him that he would soon place a copy in my hands.
"The rest, I believe, is known to you. Dr. Jekyll, held captive in the dwarfish form of Hyde, hid away in his chambers. It was there that the butler Poole and I found him, only moments after he had taken his own life.
"Apparently he expected my arrival, for he left certain papers behind, together with a note drawing them to my attention. The first was his will; the second, a copy of Dr. Lanyon's narrative. The third document was Jekyll's full and final confession."
Hester's shock gave way to relief. "Then you do have proof," she said.
Mr. Utterson shook his head. "I did have, but only for a brief interval. Much to my present shame I acted upon impulse and burned all of the papers that might serve as evidence, retaining only the will."
Hester's question was inevitable. "Why didn't you go to the police?"