Anatomy of Evil

by Will Thomas

  “Did you come up with that term yourself?”

  “No. As I recall, it was Mrs. Ashleigh who called it that.”

  “Ah.”

  He wouldn’t put the spectacles back on. They lay there open and inverted on the table. His face looked all wrong without them, and it wasn’t just because of the eye. He looked naked without the moon-shaped spheres, more vulnerable than I’d ever seen him.

  “Munro suggested I wear a patch, but to do so would diminish the sight in this eye. The loss was too high a price to pay, you see. I refused. The commissioner made it a condition of my hiring, and there was an end of it.”

  “I see. What did you do?”

  “What could I do? I marched out of there madder than—”

  “A wet hen?”

  “If you say so. Madder than a wet hen. I marched out the gate and down Whitehall Street. When I reached Craig’s Court, there was a property for sale, and I sat down on the steps in front of it to still my anger.”

  “Number seven.”

  “Indeed. I looked down the court. Back then, there were hoardings hanging from both sides, advertising for enquiry work. Why not? I asked. I looked in the windows at the vacant building and took down the estate agent’s address. I bought the property that day. If Scotland Yard had no use for my services, then I would make them regret that decision, in a manner they were not likely to forget.”

  I picked up the spectacles. They were of copper mixed with brass, and were hinged at the corners and again halfway down the earpieces. The bridge vaguely represented an undulating dragon. The lenses looked black as coal, but when I glanced through them everything took on a sepia hue.

  “Here are your spectacles,” I said, handing them to him. I couldn’t look at that ruined eye for another moment.

  He took them and put them on, first one ear, and then the other. I let out my breath. I never wanted to see behind those lenses again if I could help it.

  “Well, then,” I said, for want of anything else to say.

  “Well, then, what?” he demanded. His ginger was up, I could see. He was going to be disputative.

  “The spectacles didn’t matter,” I said. “Munro just didn’t want to accept you into his private party. Obviously, you had abilities that he was jealous of, so he went for the spectacles. It could have been something else. You’re too tall or too heavy, or they don’t accept former soldiers or sailors or nonconformists, whatever was available to exclude you.”

  Barker stared at me and frowned. I’d seen it enough times to recognize it, spectacles or not. He was in one of his brooding moods, I could see, and there would be little reasoning with him.

  “Of course, it might be helpful if you can clear up this trifling matter of tracking the Whitechapel Killer,” I said.

  “‘Trifling matter,’ indeed.”

  “May I assume this is just a temporary engagement with Scotland Yard?”

  “Well, of course,” he said, but the way he said it in no way alleviated my concerns.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  We were on our way out the door at six, and I admit I was rather down. Somewhere, I told myself, this Whitechapel Killer was laughing at us, and he had a reason to. A comic artist had done a drawing in the newspapers of a constable in a blindfold, playing blindman’s buff with a gang of criminals who were laughing at him. It had been passed about the squad room. It was a part of my new position I hadn’t thought of before; public evaluation on the performance of our duties, and criticism that we were not up to scratch. We were public servants, after all, and subject to their opinions.

  I looked up and realized we were going over Westminster Bridge.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Home,” the Guv said.

  “Why?” I asked. One doesn’t get the rose without the thorn around here.

  “I received a new file today. Swanson had been holding on to it. We’re going to interview a suspect tonight.”

  “Why are we going home, then?”

  “To change. It’s an evening affair.”

  “Ah,” I said. “I see.”

  It is a pity Barker doesn’t understand sarcasm. Or perhaps it is a mercy.

  When we arrived in Newington again, it was obvious Mac had been tipped off to our arrival. I could smell food cooking, and a brace of top hats were on the chair in the hall. Mac knew, but I didn’t. At least he hadn’t informed Harm, who was dancing circles in the hall and yipping with happiness. The master was home. And his appendage.

  “Is she here?” Barker asked.

  “She said she wanted to air the rooms in her town house, sir. She’ll be along directly, in time for dinner.”

  “Who?” I asked Mac directly, having little success with our employer.

  “Mrs. Ashleigh, of course.”

  “She’s coming here?”

  “You don’t know much, do you?” he murmured, rather pleased with himself, as he went back to the kitchen.

  As if on cue, Mrs. Philippa Ashleigh’s carriage arrived at the curb in Lion Street. Mac stepped out and escorted her to the door. She was, as always, beautiful, ageless, cultured, and charming. She wore a cream-colored gown with a stole of ermine and a choker of diamonds that if sold could have fed all of Whitechapel.

  “Thomas,” she said. She had a way of making one feel she had come all the way from Sussex expressly to see you. “You look well. All in one piece?”

  “For the most part. It’s wonderful to see you again.”

  “Are you excited about this evening?”

  “I might be if someone were to finally tell me where we are going.”

  “To the Lyceum, dear boy. Cyrus has tickets to the most successful show in town!”

  “What play is Irving performing? I’m afraid I haven’t kept up with the theater column.”

  “Not Irving, silly,” she said. “Richard Mansfield. The play we’re seeing tonight is Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”

  Forgotten were the cares of the day and the opinions of the anonymous citizens who paid our salary. We had tickets to the theater! Now, Thomas Llewelyn might have been a classics scholar, but he could still add two and two. The suspect Barker and I were seeing that evening could only be Mansfield himself. His performance was said to be so shocking that women fainted in the aisle. It was implied, if not actually said, that no fully sane actor could give such a disturbed and disturbing performance. My friend Israel had gone several times, though never in the good seats, and said that whatever trick was done to turn one title character into the other was worth the price of the ticket. And if we were to question him, obviously, we had to join him in his dressing room afterward.

  The production had come into the London theaters the year before to much fanfare. The book itself, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, by the author Robert Louis Stevenson, now stood on my bookshelf. I had been much impressed by it. The man never wrote an imperfect sentence. Alas, the delights of the theater were generally shut to a man in my profession, and I had expected never to see the controversial actor perform his most famous role. Now, unbidden, we were going, thanks to a file at Scotland Yard. By my calculations, Barker must have decided to go to the theater the day before in order to give Mrs. Ashleigh time to prepare.

  “How are the delights of an old London inn?” she asked.

  “Perfect, thanks to Keating’s Bug Powder. The food is good enough at the Frying Pan, but I’m afraid the fellow I’m sharing my room with snores.”

  She laughed. Philippa loved to get my private opinions of her permanent suitor, as if Barker were some antediluvian creature and she and I the foremost authorities upon the species, comparing notes. She carried about with her a measure of ease and bonhomie. Nothing seemed to fluster her, and nothing was so important that she could not puncture its self-esteem. As far as I was concerned, she was the epitome of grace and charm.

  Theirs was a most unusual arrangement, as far as I could tell. They would not wed anytime soon, but both took it for granted that it w
as to happen eventually. When not engaged in a case, he would drop down to her house in Seaford on a Thursday and return on late Saturday, so as to avoid the Sunday Express, known as the “Sabbath Breaker.” They were very close, but he seldom spoke of her. I got the impression that though she spoke of him to me, because of my circumstances, she did not do so to others. They were both intensely private people.

  Dinner was served. The main course was coq au vin, supported by halibut in butter, roasted potatoes, lobster bisque, haricots verts, and choufleur. A mixed berry tart and green salad finished the meal. White wine was served, and coffee. Afterward, Mrs. Ashleigh whiled a half hour away in the library with Harm while Barker and I dressed in our evening kit, under the sober scrutiny of Jacob Maccabee. At his insistence, I tried a hair cream that he used himself, which would tame my gypsy curls for the night.

  “Are you certain about this, Mac?”

  “I assume you want to wear your top hat,” he said, “and not have it float about your head.”

  When I went down to the ground floor again, Mac was helping the Guv on with his opera cape. He was wearing green-lensed spectacles, which according to his own fashion he only wore to the theater. They reminded me of jade disks. Finally, Mac opened the front door and we swept out to Mrs. Ashleigh’s open carriage.

  We arrived in plenty of time for the curtain and were seated in our box. I was to hold Philippa’s opera glasses, a very important duty. Barker sat silently for the most part, but Philippa kept up a stream of information about the people in the theater that she knew.

  “That’s Lady Margaret Thurston in the third tier. She’s divorcing her second husband. Beside her is her daughter, Hyacinth, who came out this year and has caught the eye of the youngest son of the Earl of Warrick. In the next box are Rabbi and Mrs. Mocatta and the Cowens.”

  “What?” I asked. “May I?”

  I borrowed the opera glasses and looked across, adjusting the rings to bring everything into focus. I could feel my heart begin to thump against my breastbone. Rebecca Cowen was there, looking a trifle bored, but so beautiful it made my heart ache. She wore an evening gown and I stared at the delicate perfection of her shoulders.

  “Do you know the Cowens?” I asked.

  “By reputation only. He’s very popular in his district. Popular in Poplar? She’s rather shy, but then, she’s young. Rather pretty, though, don’t you think?”

  “Is she? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Thomas, I hope you are a better liar while on a case.”

  The lights came down and the play began, and we were all drawn into the story of the ill-fated doctor and his supposed lodger. Mansfield was no Henry Irving, but the role was his and he performed it well enough. I looked over and watched my employer as Mrs. Ashleigh slid a proprietary hand under his arm.

  Finally, the moment came that I had been warned about by Israel Zangwill. Jekyll was alone in his laboratory, and first drank the formula which he hoped would remove all trace of evil from his soul. He was noting facts in a notebook, and taking his own pulse at the side of his neck, when suddenly, he pitched forward in pain. The audience gave a sudden moan, perhaps in sympathy. Mansfield fell back, disarraying his hair, then slowly pulled himself up again, hunched forward upon the laboratory table. He raised his head, and he had another face! Philippa gasped beside me, and raised the glasses to her eyes, while I trained mine on the actor’s features. His eyes were sunken in shadow, his nose was suddenly hawkish, and his mouth had become a rictus of teeth. It was as if his face had become a human skull. Then he began to laugh, a short, maniacal sound. There were screams in the audience. Looking over, I saw Philippa’s arm latched upon Barker’s. Finally, she would not look, and handed the opera glasses to me hastily.

  Instantly, I turned and regarded the third tier. Rebecca had raised a gloved hand to her mouth. Her husband sat there looking bored, the lout. How hard would it be to act solicitous to his new bride?

  I trained the glasses on the stage again. Gone was Jekyll entirely and in his place, this devil, Edward Hyde. Could such a thing happen? I wondered. Oh, not a physical transformation, of course, but a mental one? Was some fellow leaving his office at night and turning into a monster, preying upon unfortunates, becoming a completely different person in the process?

  One could see why there was a file on Richard Mansfield in the Records Room. He had just terrified a thousand people. Perhaps I had underestimated him as an actor, and he was every bit as good as Irving. Or perhaps he carried his mad performance into the streets afterward, and had been given another name in Whitechapel.

  The play went on but I was preoccupied. Rebecca. Dr. Jekyll. Asher Cowen. Richard Mansfield. I fell into a reverie until suddenly the curtain was coming down and people rose to applaud. Belatedly, I did the same.

  “Wasn’t he terrifying?” Philippa asked. “He gave me gooseflesh.”

  “Indeed,” I answered. Barker, on the other side of her, was gathering his hat and stick. No doubt his mind was on the case.

  I turned and raised the glasses to my eyes, hoping for one more glimpse of Rebecca Cowen, but she was already leaving, with her family. The chasm between us, the space of the theater seating, seemed somehow symbolic. Symbolic, and utterly crushing.

  There is no need to go through the various stages that eventually led us in front of the great actor, the cajoling, threatening, and bribes to the stage manager. Suffice it to say, we were finally shown into the actor’s dressing room. Mansfield sat in a white shirt with the collar sprung, the insides stained orange with greasepaint. His hair was wet, as if he’d just been caught in a shower. He apologized to Philippa for his dishabille.

  “I have lost two stone since I began this play last year. It is exhausting,” he explained.

  “You were marvelous,” Mrs. Ashleigh said. “It was a tour de force.”

  “You are too kind. My word, you’re a big fellow,” he said to Barker. “I like those spectacles.”

  “Thank you. Mr. Llewelyn and I are with Scotland Yard.”

  “You certainly dress well for policemen. Is there a special division for theaters?” Mansfield turned toward the mirror and began to wipe at his face with a small sponge. “Is this to be an interrogation, then?”

  “Certainly not, not in front of the lady. But we can chat, if that is not too disagreeable. I’m no critic, but your performance was very good, and the trick with the lighting was inspired.”

  “The lighting?” Mansfield asked.

  “Yes, the change from full-on lighting to overhead, lengthening the shadows. I noticed it because my spectacles are sensitive to changes in light.”

  “You are the first person in a year to cotton to that.”

  “Aye, well. Mum’s the word. That’s the phrase, is it not, lad?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I hear DCI Swanson has questioned you in this matter of the Whitechapel killings.”

  “Yes,” the actor said, looking over his shoulder. “Have you ever heard anything more stupid? I’m an actor. I’m just playing a role. I could be Julius Caesar or Richard III and no one would suspect me of anything then. This play has been a blessing as well as a curse. It’s doing very well; almost too well. I suspect this business in the East End is swelling our crowds. I’ve a mind to give it up, for fear that my name will be linked forever with Stevenson’s creation and nothing else, but I’ve got rent to pay on this theater and a wife and children at home. It’s taken me years to reach this level of fame.”

  “Then why give it up?” I asked.

  “Because it’s killing me. My doctor has warned me that I am endangering my health. I’m like a limp rag every night. That Swanson fellow wanted to know where I went after each performance, but the problem is that I can’t go anywhere but my hotel. I’m asleep in the cab by the time we arrive. The thought of me running around the East End, it’s ludicrous. I’ve tried cocaine to add energy to my performance, but there is a falling away after, and I can barely make it through the final curtain. My ha
ir has begun to go gray. I’ve had to start dyeing it. My doctor is giving me iron tablets and vitamins. My wife says it’s just a play like any other, but sometimes I feel as if I shall become Hyde’s final victim. This play shall be the death of me.”

  “You poor man,” Philippa said, actually touching his shoulder.

  “My apologies, madam. It wasn’t my intention to complain.”

  “It should be an easy matter to establish your whereabouts,” Barker said. “I assume Swanson has done so.”

  “Of course. The management at the Carlisle were not happy about having to vouch for a guest, but I have a memorable face and no one saw me leave.”

  “Then we have nothing to say, save that you may add another sterling performance to your reputation. The audience was most appreciative.”

  “Yes, they were. I shall in no way impugn the London theatergoers. They are the best on earth.”

  “We shall leave you to your well-deserved rest. Good evening, sir.”

  “And you. My best wishes to the Yard on catching this monster.”

  We left the dressing room and were soon stepping out the stage door into a cool evening. Mrs. Ashleigh pulled her stole closer around her. Autumn was coming on.

  “‘No one saw me leave,’” she repeated.

  “Very good, my dear,” Barker told her. “He has just proven to us that he was capable of looking like two completely different people. Why not three or four?”

  “So, he doesn’t necessarily have an alibi at all. You didn’t believe him when he said he dropped off?” I asked.

  “Not for certain, no.”

  “He was very convincing. How does one know when an actor is telling the truth?”

  “When he is completely silent. And not otherwise,” the Guv said.

  We took Mrs. Ashleigh to her pied-à-terre in Kensington. My employer climbed down and she kissed me on the cheek before alighting. I stayed in the cab to let them say their adieus. When Barker returned, he looked as if he was waiting for me to make some sort of remark. I decided to change the subject.