The Man Who Was Jekyll and Hyde

by Rick Wilson

  For Daisy and Corin

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you to – Dutch writer Marco Daane for his insights on Deacon Brodie’s Amsterdam arrest; antique journo Bill Sinclair for his antiquarian Edinburgh journals; Ian Nimmo, past chairman of the Robert Louis Stevenson Club, for all his borrowed knowledge; Edinburgh University’s Owen Dudley Edwards for his thought-provoking views; Keith Walker, Napier University information services adviser, for his ‘enlightening’ help; tour leader Magnus Moodie for his Old Town guidance; David S. Forsyth, National Museums Scotland, for pointing me to Brodie’s forged keys and dark lantern; and John and Felicitas Macfie for showing me around their house that once housed RLS.

  CONTENTS

  Title

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  1 The Brodie Root of Jekyll and Hyde

  2 His Life and Loves

  3 The Birth of his Criminal Half

  4 Escape – and Capture

  5 The Last Letters of his Life

  6 The Trial: You Stand Accused

  7 Death (or not?) by Hanging

  Bibliography

  Plates

  About the Author

  Copyright

  INTRODUCTION

  Who was Deacon Brodie? Many people profess to know the name, but a surprisingly large number are unsure if they know his story. Not to be smug about it: that number would have included this writer before embarking on this project.

  The daytime William Brodie was a superficially charming gentleman and city councillor who commanded the timorous respect of fellow citizens as he went about his business of winning work for his cabinet-making company. Certain things about him, however, betrayed the fact that he was something more than a good, solid, upright Edinburgher. In what was a fairly grey-toned eighteenth-century Scotland he could seem like a bit of a dandy, with his cocked hat, flowered waistcoat and silver buckled top-quality shoes; not to mention a livid scar on one cheek – the result of a dispute over loaded dice in a card game. Even a stranger might have reckoned there was at least a boyish naughty streak there.

  But it was far more serious than that. Despite showing occasional flashes of fatherly tenderness for favoured members of his five-strong illegitimate brood, he was basically a selfish and ungrateful soul with an insatiable appetite for money, who once said he would rather go to sea than develop the business left to him by his father – along with a huge fortune – as he had seen that big treasure prizes were being taken by sailors of every rank. Nor was he grateful for his privileged position on the city council that, in the days before corruption as we now know it, afforded him, as deacon of wrights, an endless conveyor belt of business opportunities. These, crucially, included crime. For as his day job gave him access to clients’ shops, houses and safe keys – from which he made copies – by night he morphed into a cloaked, sinister burglar who skulked around the closes of old Edinburgh with a dark lantern and darker intentions.

  Eventually found guilty of a long series of robberies that had shocked and mystified the city’s population, this was an extremely aberrant man who was to fall foul of his own greed and deep psychological complexities – including an enthusiasm for theatricality – that prompted him to become another person in the same body. So perhaps that should be persons, plural. By his own confession he was a ‘very ingenuous fellow’, but he was also a gambler, a spendthrift, a deceiver of two mistresses and generally – perhaps the biggest societal sin of this particular period – a betrayer of his own class and upbringing. Not for murder, but for this – as well as his audacious attempt to rob the Excise Office of Scotland – he and an accomplice were hanged on a scaffold said by some to have been designed by himself a year before.

  But another piece of joinery figures large in his tale. One of his cabinets was to be the catalyst that ‘fathered’ Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde in Edinburgh. A century after its creation in Brodie’s workshop in the Lawnmarket, the cabinet stood at the foot of Robert Louis Stevenson’s bed in the New Town, and the then-young author, reminded every day of its provenance, became so obsessed by the Brodie story – and thus by any human being’s capacity to be more than one personality in one body – that he was moved to no fewer than three creations based on him. These were two plays and a horror-story novella that became an immediate bestseller and introduced the world to the character(s) whose names have figured ever since in everyday English speech.

  Talking to the Museum of Edinburgh about details of William Brodie’s life, including the family Bible from whose birth register all reference to him had been excised, we learned that in planning to mount an exhibition entitled ‘Edinburgh, City of Stories’ it had invited friends of the institution to vote for their favourite tale out of three – Burke and Hare, Greyfriars Bobby or Deacon Brodie. The vote went to Greyfriars Bobby, but surely its proponents were barking up the wrong tree? For as we were saying, if more people knew more about the Deacon, his remarkable tale would doubtless have easily swung the vote.

  Why is it so remarkable? There are many reasons – because of the stark differences in his two personalities; because he eluded truth and justice for so long; because he was not all evil, having a gentler side for friends (and families); because his upbringing gave him a false expectation that he would survive all that life would throw at him, regardless of his crimes; because he did not, in the end, survive them – not his flight to Amsterdam as he prepared to take a ship to America and probably not his final demise, despite stories of collusion with the hangman, a protective steel collar around his neck and a doctor standing ready to revive him.

  But mainly it’s because he symbolised – at an extreme level – that alarming human ability to be a split personality, and as such could fairly be seen as the driving impulse behind Stevenson’s still-resonant creation of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.

  Not convinced? You are herewith invited to read the story with sceptical eye, be carried along by it and see if, in conclusion, you disagree.

  1

  THE BRODIE ROOT

  OF JEKYLL AND HYDE

  When I was sick and lay a-bed,

  I had two pillows at my head,

  And all my toys beside me lay

  To keep me happy all the day.

  The night was a different matter. In that famous poem from his A Child’s Garden of Verses, Robert Louis Stevenson fondly described the eponymous Land of Counterpane as ‘pleasant’. But it was not always so. Sometimes, as he snuggled under his sleep-time bedspread – or counterpane – in his second-floor room in the family house in Edinburgh’s Georgian New Town, the bronchitis-affected young Robert struggled to hold back the darker side of his fertile, vivid and often fevered imagination.

  It was another early affliction that he would one day turn to his own fictional advantage, but it was often scarily real at the time, exacerbated by the looming presence in his room of a tall, double-doored cabinet, which, though he once called it ‘a very pretty piece of work’, was pregnant with sharp meaning for him. It had been bought by his grandfather, was then owned by his father, and had an origin of unusual interest for someone who was to become a writer of spine-chilling human experience and swashbuckling adventure.

  Why was it so meaningful? It had been made nearly a century before by one of Edinburgh’s most notorious characters, a man whose double life still fascinates today: William Brodie. Known more commonly as Deacon Brodie – with his title as convenor of the city’s Incorporation of Wrights and Masons serving almost as a forename – he sparked outrage in Edinburgh by dramatically betraying his class in having another, much darker side at play against his daytime persona, which was all about respectability. He had sartorial flair,
a ready if thin-lipped smile, a family fortune, quick-witted conversation for clients and neighbours, a seat on the town council and – most impressive of all – a serious employer-career as the city’s most respected cabinet-maker, who would often be expected to access his customers’ shops and homes to work in situ.

  It was that circumstance that helped him to become an entirely different animal by night. He was good with his hands, having acquired his skills as well as his company and fortune from his much-respected father, Francis, but it was not just woodwork that went on in his shop in the Lawnmarket (still identifiable today with the words Brodie’s Close above its arched entrance). What also went on there was the repair of locks and keys, and not always for legitimate purposes. Having surreptitiously made wax or putty impressions of his clients’ door keys, he then made accurate copies of them; so that after nightfall – dressed in black clothes and clutching a dark lantern – he would return to their premises as a common thief to steal their money, shop stock or valuable possessions.

  Perhaps ‘uncommon thief’ would be a better expression, for these crimes mystified their victims, the citizens and authorities for a long time, as there was never any sign of forced entry; it looked almost as if the robber was a ghost that could pass through walls. And in the meantime, Brodie used his ill-gotten gains to maintain an extravagant lifestyle that threatened to drain his huge £10,000 legacy – an out-of-control gambling habit that included cock-fighting, cheating with loaded dice and the expensive maintenance of two mistresses (who did not know of each other) with whom he had a total of five children. But it couldn’t go on forever. His first big mistake was going for a degree of delegation in recruiting three unreliable helpers, all of whom were to eventually betray him after his second big mistake, mounting an audacious but abortive raid on the depository of the very taxes of Scotland – the Excise Office at the back of Chessel’s Court in the Canongate. The handsome building can still be found there today.

  What did Brodie look like? One contemporary said that, set inside a big wig, his face looked like that of a fox, narrowing on each side down to his chin – a good picture indeed for someone so wily. But there was more detail. When he had been named as the prime suspect in all these crimes, especially the tax office raid, and the hunt was on to catch him as he took flight down through England and across to the Continent, the following description of him appeared in the Edinburgh press, as given in the Sheriff Clerk’s appeal for his arrest, on 12 March 1788:

  WILLIAM BRODIE is about five feet four inches – is about forty-eight years of age, but looks rather younger than he is – broad at the shoulders and very small over the loins – has dark brown full eyes, with large black eye-brows – under the right eye there is the scar of a cut, which is still a little sore at the point of the eye next the nose, and a cast with his eye that gives him somewhat the look of a Jew – a sallow complexion – a particular motion with his mouth and lips when he speaks, which he does full and slow, his mouth being commonly open at the time, and his tongue doubling up, as it were, shows itself towards the roof of his mouth – black hair, twisted, turned up, and tied behind, coming far down upon each cheek, and the whiskers very sandy at the end; high topped in the front, and frizzed at the side – high smooth forehead – has a particular air in his walk, takes long steps, strikes the ground first with his heel, bending both feet inwards before he moves them again – usually wears a stick under hand, and moves in a proud swaggering sort of style – his legs small above the ankle, large ankle bones and a large foot, high brawns, small at the knees, which bend when he walks, as if through weakness – Was dressed in a black coat, vest, breeches, and stockings, a striped duffle great coat, and silver shoe buckles.

  After he was arrested – in a rented room above a pub in Amsterdam – and brought home to be tried and hanged, the remarkable story of Brodie’s double life and demise before 40,000 citizens, on a gibbet often said to have been designed by himself, made him a permanently potent part of Edinburgh’s lore that still held its folk in thrall a century later. Robert Louis Stevenson was one such person, almost obsessed not just with the literary potential of such human duality – didn’t everybody have a devil like Brodie’s balancing on one shoulder? – but by knowing that the cabinet with which he shared his early bedroom at No. 17 Heriot Row had been designed and made by that bad piece of work himself.

  This powerful block of furniture appeared not just in his reality but also in his dreams, even later in life; it is often claimed to have inspired him to write at least two of his creations: first, a play entitled Deacon Brodie or the Double Life (co-written with his occasional collaborator W.E. Henley) that was presented to lukewarm receptions on stage in New York and London, where George Bernard Shaw called it ‘childish and unbelievable’, but second, and more importantly, his allegorical novella Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde that horrifically highlights the good and bad sides of a respectable person. This not only became an instant bestseller but also lent its title to everyday use in the English language: anyone showing contrasting personality traits is a ‘Jekyll and Hyde’ character. It seemed to touch a nerve in a moment of sociological identity crisis, while the strict mores of Victorian respectability were being challenged by a wave of technological change.

  ‘I want to write about a fellow who was two fellows,’ the author asserted to friends early in his career. So he spent many years seeking an effective story to play with the idea that even good people were capable of heinous behaviour, or, as he later put it himself: ‘I had long been trying to find a body, a vehicle, for that strong sense of man’s double being which must at times come in upon and overwhelm the mind of every thinking creature.’ There is little doubt that, for him, the Brodie theatrical creation was a big step towards ‘finding’ Jekyll as the holy grail.

  Stevenson’s stepson Lloyd Osbourne wrote:

  I don’t believe that there was ever such a literary feat before as the writing of Dr Jekyll … Louis came downstairs in a fever; read nearly half the book aloud; and then, while we were still gasping, he was away again, and busy writing. I doubt if the first draft took so long as three days.

  The good doctor’s birth might have been an easier creative development than the constantly revised and reconceived Brodie play, but it was still a harsh experience. The pangs started in the author’s Bournemouth health retreat in the autumn of 1885, when his American wife Fanny was alarmed at his moaning and thrashing about in bed in the small hours. She recalled: ‘I was awakened by cries of horror from Louis. Thinking he had a nightmare, I awakened him. He said angrily: “Why did you wake me? I was dreaming a fine bogey tale.” I had awakened him at the first transformation scene.’

  He nonetheless managed to salvage many scenes from this nightmare to form the basis for the novella that has since become iconic, still a best-seller today and adapted to many feature films and countless stage plays. After it was written ‘in a fever’, there was more drama between the couple when he read the ‘finished’ story out loud to Fanny – who then suggested that he’d got it wrong, that it should have been more allegorical. He flew into another rage, threw the manuscript on the fire and ran out of the room. An hour later he was back, shouting, ‘You were right, you were right!’ – and immediately began scribbling again, completing a second version in another three frantic days, fuelled – some say – by drugs essentially meant for his lung condition.

  What had been the problem? ‘In the first draft’, according to Stevenson’s cousin Graham Balfour, in his The Life of Robert Louis Stevenson (1901), ‘Jekyll’s nature was bad all through and the Hyde change was worked only as a disguise.’

  It was a lesson the author obviously took to heart, for in a subsequent reworking of the Brodie play he expressed his concern ‘not to make Brodie pure evil’. He was certainly getting the hang of this split-personality theme that emerged again and again in his life and work. Some examples follow:

  We have all our secret evil. Only mine has broken loose; it is my
maniac brother who has slipped his chain.

  (Deacon Brodie play, 1888, Act III speech)

  Many a citizen was proud to welcome the Deacon to supper, and dismissed him with regret at a timeous hour, who would have been vastly disconcerted had he known how soon, and in what guise, his visitor returned.

  (Robert Louis Stevenson on Deacon Brodie in Edinburgh Picturesque Notes)

  I saw for the first time the appearance of Edward Hyde … When I looked upon that ugly idol in the glass, I was conscious of no repugnance, rather of a leap of welcome. This, too, was myself. It seemed natural and human. In my eyes it bore a livelier image of the spirit, it seemed more express and single, than the imperfect and divided countenance I had been hitherto accustomed to call mine. And in so far I was doubtless right. I have observed that when I wore the semblance of Edward Hyde, none could come near to me at first without a visible misgiving of the flesh. This, as I take it, was because all human beings, as we meet them, are commingled out of good and evil …

  (From ‘Henry Jekyll’s Full Statement of the Case’, chapter ten of Strange Case of Dr Jekyll And Mr Hyde)

  It was on the moral side, and in my own person, that I learned to recognise the thorough and primitive duality of man; I saw that, of the two natures that contended in the field of my consciousness, even if I could rightly be said to be either, it was only because I was radically both.

  (From the same passage as above)

  But the greater question about these works that has long been open to debate is: was his haunting by the Brodie story and the Brodie bedroom cabinet the essential inspirational root for Jekyll and Hyde? It is often assumed to be the case by Robert Louis Stevenson enthusiasts, but the Edinburgh place where the six-drawer cabinet is now accommodated – in the Writers’ Museum in Lady Stairs Close off the Lawnmarket, just opposite the one-time workshop of Deacon Brodie – seems to hedge its bets about that, while allowing it to be a prompter for the Brodie play. Mounted on the wall beside the exhibited curiosity, which can still send shivers running down a viewer’s spine, is a caption that reads: