“You must forgive me for saying so, gentlemen,” he said, “but this taking of matters of the law into a regular citizen’s hands smacks of vigilantism.” He waited, weighing the impact of his words before he proceeded. “It is frankly the kind of thing we might expect to encounter in the Wild American West.”
Stevenson was obliged to smile at the analogy. He could just imagine Fanny patrolling the East End on horseback, chaps on her legs, spurs on her heels, and a Winchester repeating rifle holstered on her saddle.
“Do you find that amusing, Mr. Stevenson?”
Something in the man’s tone and demeanor brought up the writer’s blood. Perhaps it was an echo of Mr. Henderson, “Auld Hendie,” the loathed and brutal schoolmaster of his early Edinburgh days.
“Forgive me, Chief Inspector,” Stevenson replied. “But I believe I heard that a man named Lusk—an Englishman in fact—has recently founded something called the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. To aid the Metropolitan Police, I am told, in their now rather lengthy and still unavailing efforts to end these frightful murders.”
Swanson bristled satisfyingly. “I assure you, the Metropolitan Police are in no need of any such assistance.”
Stevenson watched as the man reddened a trifle more, then indulged himself in the skeptical arching of an eyebrow. The impudent gesture earned him an admonitory scowl from Symonds. In truth, there was nothing to be gained from angering this man, and potentially a good deal to be lost, especially for Symonds. He resolved to be civil.
For the better part of a minute Swanson drummed his biceps arhythmically with his fingers. It was evidently his way of settling himself. “Remonstrations and second-guessings are all very well and good,” he crooned presently with exaggerated calm. “We are, however, precisely where we find ourselves. Now, you say you were present in Dutfield’s Yard when the deed was done?”
“We were,” answered Symonds. “God help us.”
“And you clearly saw the man cut the victim’s throat?”
“No. Not exactly. It was, as we told Inspector Abberline, utterly dark there.”
“I see. How very unfortunate.”
Symonds looked at Stevenson in modest bewilderment. “There can be no doubt,” he declared, “that it was he that did the murder. We followed him from his house. He was never out of our sight.”
“Except, one presumes, for certain portions of the carriage ride.”
“That can hardly be of significance,” exclaimed Stevenson. “The landau was moving at a brisk trot the entire time.”
“But you are certain that the man you then followed on foot was your man?”
“We are,” replied Symonds.
“And you are certain the man who rushed from Dutfield’s Yard was him.”
“As certain as a mortal can be.”
“I see,” said Swanson. “And the man’s name? Are you now prepared to name him? This gentleman from Portman Square?”
“We are,” replied Symonds, with a confirming glance at Stevenson.
Swanson eyed them intently, but remained settled back in his chair. “And his name is…?”
“His name is Thomas Hallett.”
Swanson sat there impassively for several seconds, then his right hand rose slowly to his face and he stroked his moustache with studied calm.
“Thomas Hallett. Of the shipping family?”
“And of Portman Square,” confirmed Symonds.
“I see. And you are absolutely certain it was he? In the landau, stalking the streets, and in Dutfield’s Yard?”
“Again, as certain as a mortal can be.”
“There is no need to be metaphysical, Mr. Symonds. This is a matter of some gravity.”
“I am well aware of its gravity, Chief Inspector,” responded Symonds with a more than a hint of pique.
“I presume you have told no one else of this?” asked Swanson. “No one beyond myself…and Mr. Stevenson?”
“I have not.”
“Very good. That’s very good. Well, Mr. Symonds,” said Swanson, rising from his chair. “I cannot approve of your methods, as I am sure you will understand. But you have nonetheless done your Queen and her people a very great service. I, particularly, am extremely grateful. Is there anything else you wish to say to me?”
Symonds gazed at Stevenson, then shook his head. “No. I believe that is the sum of it.”
“Thank you then. And thank you as well, Mr. Stevenson.” He smiled in a markedly officious manner. “As it happens, I am a great admirer of your work. My son is as well. Treasure Island is one of his favorites.”
“It pleases me to know that,” replied the writer. “I am flattered.”
“Will there be anything more for now?” asked Symonds.
“Not presently, thank you,” said the man. “We will of course proceed immediately with this new aspect of our investigation. Posthaste.” He nodded for emphasis. “If we have any need of further information, from either of you, we will of course be in touch. I believe we have information regarding where you may both be reached?”
“You do,” replied Symonds. “It was all taken down by the constable in the Back Hall.”
“Very good,” said Swanson. “As it should have been. Well, gentlemen. Good day. And let me again offer the most profound thanks for your indispensable information. You may count on our pursuing it with the utmost vigor.”
The strength of his parting handshake suggested that the man was indeed capable of great vigor, if he so chose.
“Well,” sighed Symonds as they walked up Whitehall towards Trafalgar Square. “The stone you persist in mentioning is most certainly on the roll now.”
“It is in truth. The die is cast.”
“I am extremely glad that you and I have done this,” Symonds added, turning to his friend with a warm smile. “I might say I think I am glad, but that would simply be the voice of anxiety speaking.”
“You do look relieved. And it was essential for us to do. Let us now hope that your bold sally has the full results that we aspire to. And nothing more or other.”
“Would you join me in raising a glass to that hope?” Symonds gestured towards a public house, one much favored by members of Parliament, that they were just passing.
“With all my heart.”
20
Time ran on; thousands of pounds were offered in reward, for the death of Sir Danvers was resented as a public injury; but Mr. Hyde had disappeared out of the ken of the police as though he had never existed.
—THE NARRATOR, JEKYLL AND HYDE
Stevenson caught the 11:35 to Bournemouth the following morning. He had dined with Symonds at the Savoy his last evening in the capital, pledging to rush back if his services or company were required before his old friend returned to Switzerland. They consumed a good deal of wine, finishing with as good a Trockenbeerenauslese as either of them had ever tasted. It brought back rich memories of frigid postprandial strolls in Davos, when the snow squeaked underfoot and the stars paraded their vast and lustrous regiments high above the sentinel pines. The alcohol and the day’s exhausting events had left Symonds extraordinarily unguarded, and as they said farewell, tears had run unfettered down his cheeks.
The train journey was uneventful, save that Stevenson shared a compartment with a pair of young solicitors and a charming old bespectacled matron whose King Charles spaniel passed gas with criminal frequency. There was a supremely awkward initial moment, shortly after the train left Waterloo, when the offensive miasma rose and noses twitched and eyes roamed in a subtle effort to detect the source. The human occupants quickly fell into whichever postures best suggested that they were not themselves to blame. The two attorneys seemed well enough acquainted to reassure each other in short order, and they looked over at Stevenson in accusatory tandem. Stevenson cocked an eyebrow in a way calculated to signal modest annoyance and noisily opened his copy of the Times. The spaniel, with its muzzle resting on the plush seat, raised its eyes and peered about as though it were following t
he flight of a bluebottle around the ceiling of the tight space. The woman looked at her dog and shook her head. The odor eventually subsided, only to be replaced by another of greater magnitude.
Stevenson was fighting the urge to leap up and throw the window open when the woman lowered her book with an exasperated sigh. “I am afraid it is my dog, gentlemen. I am ever so sorry. Please do open the window, if you wish. Or take a seat elsewhere. We shall not be offended.”
The three men laughed, exchanging looks of relief and amusement. What an extraordinary old woman to give voice to the unspeakable! Stevenson stood and opened the window a good six inches, relishing the surge of untainted air.
“I’m sure I don’t know what it is,” said the lady, looking around at the men with a bemused twinkle, “but there is no use pretending little Minzy isn’t something of a social menace.”
As he approached the door at Skerryvore, Stevenson was again not altogether certain which Fanny might be waiting there to greet him. His homecoming after the initial surveillances of Portman Square had been tempestuous, exacerbated by the fact that his wife had felt compelled to give Cruikshank his walking papers even before the master of the house returned from his “selfish adventures.” The man had gone beyond incursions into Valentine’s room, and had actually accosted her in the garden shed. Although Fanny insisted that it naturally fell to the head of the household to attend to all such unpleasant transactions, said head of the household’s unconscionable truancy had obliged her to act in his stead. His return would likely have been even more tumultuous had he not thought to scribble a letter to her each day he’d been away—and to bring back as a peace offering an obscenely expensive Japanese kimono and an elegant parasol for his “wee geisha.” Still, he had little doubt that when Fanny learned he had been close enough to the Stride woman’s murder to be bowled over by the fleeing killer—a scene he felt honor-bound at least to sketch for her in broad strokes—he would be the target of some powerful spousal invective.
In the event, he was perfectly right. She greeted him warmly at the door, pattering up in her slipper-feet and hugging him with the power of an amorous little she-bear. As soon as they had retreated to the parlor for a pre-tea glass of sherry, the interrogation began. She managed to draw out a sufficient number of particulars regarding the night of September 30th that her effervescence suffered a precipitous decline. London paid a huge force of policemen to enforce the law, she observed with indignation, so why would the sole breadwinner of her family hazard his life in this very uncertain endeavor? Once Stevenson assured her, however, that the affair had now been left completely in the hands of Scotland Yard, her affect improved markedly. With the second glass of sherry and the dramatic deployment of the gift parasol, Fanny was again as buoyant and flirtatious as she had been when he’d first ventured across the threshold.
Valentine prepared an excellent meal that evening—beef stewed in wine along with potatoes Lyonaise and some sautéed green beans she had somehow managed to scare up despite the lateness of the season. Capped by a sinfully rich chocolate torte, it was a feast that Stevenson thought either equaled or surpassed the previous night’s fare at the Savoy. When he sought Valentine out to tell her so, she smiled a coy smile and allowed that Mrs. Stevenson had wanted him to feel especially welcome. Fretting a mite under the suggestion that her gesture had been more for his wife than for him, Stevenson bid Valentine goodnight and retired upstairs to his bedroom.
He found Fanny sitting in her robe at her dressing table, removing a pair of rather extravagant hooped earrings—the ones, he sometimes said, that made her look like the bride of Long John Silver. She turned towards him with a tentative smile.
“Can I ask you something, Louis?”
“Of course.”
“I was taking a bath several nights ago and, as I was drying and powdering, I thought I might have found something.”
“Something?”
“Something in my breast. A lump.”
“Goodness!” Something tightened in his own chest, as it invariably did with a health scare in the family. Fanny’s crises came so regularly nowadays, though, that he was not unduly alarmed. “Have you seen a doctor?”
“Not yet.”
“Do you think you should?”
“I don’t know, Louis,” she exclaimed with a great sigh. She looked up at him in the mirror. “Could you feel it?”
“Of course.”
“Here,” she said, opening her robe. She reached up and grabbed his hand, guiding it to the lower outside of her left breast. “Oooh, your hand is freezing.”
“I’m sorry, Pig. I didn’t know I was going to be doing this.”
She pressed his hand into her flesh, sliding it around under her own. “Do you feel something?”
“I feel your breast.”
She slapped his hand and moved it about some more. “Anything?” Her eyes were riveted on his reflection.
He shook his head.
Letting go of his fingers, she raised her breast with her left hand and felt with the other. “Right here,” she said. “Tiny, but it feels like a lump. Here.” She grabbed his hand again and pressed it to the spot. “Do you feel anything?”
“Nothing unusual. At all. Are you sure you’re not just desperate to have me fondle you?”
“Louis!”
“I’m sorry, Pig. I honestly didn’t feel anything. If you are concerned, you can always go to see Doctor Barrett.”
Fanny pursed her lips into a thoughtful moue. “Perhaps I’ll just wait and see if it gets any bigger.”
“A sensible course of action, I would say.”
Fanny nodded. “But you didn’t feel anything?”
Stevenson shook his head. “I am sure, though, that you could always get Valentine to check. I expect she has a more experienced touch.”
Fanny threw his hand off her shoulder and quickly covered up, belting her robe snugly. “I don’t know why I put up with you,” she declared. “You can’t take anything seriously.”
When Stevenson returned from the water closet, Fanny was propped up against a raft of pillows in the middle of their bed, the counterpane pulled up under her chin.
“I’ve missed you these last several days,” she said, in a lilting voice. “I always miss you.”
“And I have missed you as well.” Stevenson slipped out of his jacket and untied his cravat. “It has been an insanely trying string of days.”
“I wish I had been there with you.”
“I doubt you would have wanted to be, love. Not for a great deal of it.” He unbuttoned his shirt. Peeling it off, he reached for his nightshirt.
“What’s that!” exclaimed Fanny, leaning forward over her knees. She pointed to his shoulder.
Stevenson looked down to discover an ugly bruise that ran from the end of his left clavicle well down into his meager bicep. He looked up at her sheepishly. It seemed best to be candid. “That’s where the fellow bowled into me.”
“You poor dear,” she crooned, leaning back and pushing the covers down on his side of the bed. He could see as she did so that she was wearing no nightclothes. “Come here and let Fanny make you feel better.”
He made to climb in next to her and she giggled. “Do you want to take those off?”
He looked down and noticed he was still in his trousers. He went to pull them off, nearly falling over when he caught a foot partway through the process.
Another giggle. “And those, too.”
He removed his drawers, climbing onto the mattress and lying there with his head resting on two pillows.
“Was it just horrid?” asked Fanny, nestling up against him.
“‘Horrid’ hardly does it justice.”
“Well, you’re safe now. Here with me.”
“Yes. Yes I am.”
He felt her hand slide across his stomach and then pull slightly back so that her middle finger settled into his navel. She sighed contentedly then moved her hand towards his injured shoulder. Barely touching hi
s skin, it hovered there with the weight of a feather.
“Does that hurt you, love?”
“Not really.”
“You are far stronger than you look.”
Stevenson laughed. “It’s good of you to say so.”
“It’s true.”
She inched closer and moved her hand stealthily down the mid-line of his stomach, past his navel to the hair of his groin, where she twirled her finger playfully.
“So manly,” she whispered in his ear. “Me braw laddie.”
Encouraged by a definite if preliminary response to her touch, he rose onto his left elbow to kiss her and felt a sudden stab in his shoulder.
“Owww!”
“That hurts you?”
“I’m fine.”
He bent to kiss her and, as their lips met, he reached up to cup her right breast. The nipple was hard, and she arched her chest up into his caress.
“Get on top of me,” she whispered in his ear.
Her legs parted and he rolled over between them, propping his elbows on the mattress so as not to be too heavy. He could feel himself grating against the roughness of her hair, unsure whether she was ready for him. He was about to reach down when the image of Lizzy Stride leapt unbidden to mind. She’d lain there supine, like Fanny, but with her eyes rolled back into her head and her life’s blood flowing out onto the filthy cobbles.
“What is it?” asked Fanny. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, God,” replied Stevenson as he rolled over onto his back.
Seeking Hyde Page 32