But Utterson was not listening. Of all the events of the previous evening, and all the lies that had been loosed, there was one exchange that had taken hold of his imagination. It was the claimant’s preposterous explanation for his failure to visit Gaunt Street: ‘I didn’t want to risk running into the old fellow alone. Poole always thought so absurdly highly of me that I’m not sure at all how he will receive the news of my return.’
At the time Utterson had paid it scant attention, still warding off the claimant’s redoubtable charm. But now, installed in his customary pew in St Mary’s, he found an entirely more plausible explanation: the impostor did not want to face Poole because his butler, of all men, would never be deceived by him. That was the real reason for the impostor’s reluctance—not some sensitivity to the old man’s emotions.
‘A curse on him!’ Utterson hissed, before coming to his senses and nodding apologetically to his fellow worshippers.
Nevertheless he sprang to his feet as soon as the blessing was over and marched resolutely back to Gaunt Street, where he found Poole scrubbing wine stains from the stairs—not that he could remember spilling anything.
‘Never mind that, Poole, I want you to come with me.’
‘Sir?’
‘Put down that bucket, I say—we’re going for a ride.’
‘A ride, sir? In a carriage, sir?’
‘I know this is a surprise’—in fact, the two men had not travelled together in years—‘but there’s no need to change your clothes. I merely want you to see something.’
Fifteen minutes later they were bowling along through the frost-pinched streets. ‘Is it something to do with your illness, sir?’ Poole ventured.
‘Illness?’
‘You said you were feeling out of sorts, sir. I wondered if it had something to do with your dinner last night.’
‘I suppose you could say that.’
‘Something you ate, sir?’
‘No … something …’ Utterson glanced at his butler and resolved to tell the truth. ‘We’re going to Jekyll’s, Poole, that’s where we’re going—to the home of Henry Jekyll.’
‘Sir?’
‘In response to a rather disagreeable complication.’
‘What has happened, sir?’ the butler asked, genuinely concerned.
‘Well, first of all I must own that I’ve not been completely honest with you, Poole. Do you remember that letter I received on Wednesday—the one you thought was in Jekyll’s handwriting?’
‘I remember.’
‘What if I were to tell you that it was a clever forgery—the work of a man claiming to be the missing doctor?’
‘A man claiming to be Dr. Jekyll!’
‘Indeed. And what if I were to tell you that this shameless impostor has moved into the Jekyll home, which he claims is his own?’
‘You mean to say there is a man is pretending to be my master? And he has taken over his house?’
‘Precisely so.’
‘The devil!’ Poole said, sitting forward in his seat with fists clenched. And Utterson remembered, with considerable satisfaction, that this was the same man who seven years earlier, fearing Mr. Hyde had harmed his master, had taken an axe to the laboratory door with frightening fury.
‘The devil is right, Poole,’ said Utterson. ‘As you will shortly see for yourself.’
Above Jekyll’s street a flock of ravens was circling like buzzards. Milky sunlight was straining through gauze-like clouds. Utterson, inflating his chest like a pigeon, ascended the stairs and rapped on the door with his ostrich-headed cane. Then he turned to Poole.
‘The impostor has a butler,’ he warned. ‘A scoundrel called Baxter.’
‘A butler!’
‘Who does not even pretend to look like you, Poole. Still, you should prepare yourself lest—’
But then the bolts clicked and the great door squeaked open. Utterson wheeled around, expecting to find Baxter on the threshold. But instead, to his unwelcome surprise, he saw it was the claimant himself, resplendent in a mulberry coat and beaver-skin hat.
‘Utterson!’ the man exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’
‘I’m about to head out, dear fellow—why?’
‘Why?’ Utterson snorted. ‘Because I’ve brought someone with me, that’s why—a man you seem determined to avoid!’
And with that he peeled aside, holding one arm extended lest Poole make an indignant charge, and watched as the claimant’s face squinted momentarily before igniting with delight.
‘Poole!’ the man cried. ‘My good man Poole!’
Utterson turned, expecting to find the old butler suitably enraged. But to his chagrin Poole merely looked disconcerted.
‘Master …?’ The butler was agape.
‘Poole!’ the claimant said again. ‘My word, it’s good to see that ugly mug of yours.’
‘Master … is it truly you?’
‘Your old guv’nor, Poole, back in his London castle!’
The claimant stepped forward and seized Poole’s hands and shook them vigorously; and Poole, to Utterson’s mounting dismay, simply stood there, dumbstruck, with a tear glistening in his eye—as if it really were Henry Jekyll who was greeting him on the steps.
‘I’m sorry I’ve not yet come to visit, old bean.’
‘Think nothing of it, master!’
The salutations, the grinning, the shaking of hands and the chuckling continued for what seemed an eternity; and it was only fifteen minutes later, when they were returning home in the cab, that Poole belatedly acknowledged some regret.
‘I don’t know, sir,’ he admitted sheepishly. ‘He did look like Dr. Jekyll … and all his expressions and such, they were exactly the same. Exactly the same, sir.’ He sighed. ‘Well, we were very close, my master and me, and well, we were twenty whole years together … and, well, you know how it is, sir.’
Utterson just stared out of the window, his eyes narrowed to slits.
Till the Heavens Fall
A CODICIL TO JEKYLL’S will entitled Utterson to the full estate—property as well as half a million in sterling—three months after the doctor’s disappearance. But the lawyer had elected not to pursue this avenue (he destroyed the codicil entirely) so as not, ironically, to arouse any undue suspicion. And now, after waiting almost seven years to see Henry Jekyll declared dead in absentia, his rightful bequest was in danger of being ripped away, just five days before it was officially his, by a fiendish fraudster and a circle of friends who seemed inordinately disposed in the man’s favour. Not only that, but the unexpected response of Poole, on top of all else, now seemed the ultimate betrayal—for if a man cannot trust his butler, Utterson thought, then on whom can he rely?
What he needed, he decided, was someone who had known the doctor even more intimately than Poole. Hastie Lanyon had been Jekyll’s personal physician for a while, but he of course had been dead for some years. As for his replacement, Utterson had an idea that Jekyll had engaged a foreign doctor—some barely qualified fellow—but what in blazes was his name? He visited his files, where he kept a long list of Jekyll’s creditors, and eventually unearthed the answer—a bill in the name of one H. Preiss, MD, of Shoreditch.
He was at the address—an ugly modern abode with oversized windows—within ninety minutes. A severe looking hausfrau answered the door.
‘I am looking for a certain Dr. Preiss,’ he told her. ‘Might you know of his whereabouts?’
‘Who is asking, please?’
‘Mr. Gabriel Utterson, lawyer of the City.’
The hausfrau withdrew into the darkness; there was some guttural whispering and shuffling; and a bearded, bespectacled gentleman smoking a meerschaum pipe waddled to the door.
‘You seek Herman Preiss?’ he asked, in an accent as thick as pumpernickel. ‘That is correct.’
‘Then I cannot help you, sir—the doctor no longer lives here.’
‘Do you know where he resides now?’
> ‘The doctor is missing.’
‘Missing? For how long?’
‘For six months.’
‘And no one knows where he is?’
‘That is what I said.’
‘Then what happened to him?’
‘This I do not know.’
Utterson nodded. ‘Then have you ever heard of a man called Henry Jekyll?’
‘I have not.’
‘Have you ever seen a man around here, tall, particularly handsome, thick black hair greying at the temples, bronze complexion?’
‘This description means nothing to me.’
‘Then would you be so good as to contact me at my chambers, should he appear at any stage? Or if Dr. Preiss returns?’
The man agreed, without much conviction, and Utterson gave him a note bearing his firm’s Bedford Row address.
Utterson then remembered Jekyll’s dentist, a certain Dr. Bennett in Great Ormond Street, and he remembered also the peerless condition of Jekyll’s gums, and how, in certain recent cases—when a body was burned beyond recognition, for instance—dental records had furnished the only means of identification. Was it possible, then, that Bennett might expose the impostor simply by examining the man’s maw?
But Bennett’s residence, when Utterson found it, was like a gap in a row of perfectly maintained teeth.
‘Burned to ciders,’ one of the neighbours told him, strolling past with a feisty terrier. ‘Along with everything inside.’
‘And Dr. Bennett as well?’
‘Poor sod,’ the neighbour said, nodding. ‘Sleeping at the time, he was. Left a fire roaring in the hearth and the cinders set fire to the rug—or so they say.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘Two months ago, or thereabouts.’
Utterson surveyed the blackened ruins. ‘There were no suspicious circumstances?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘And what about his papers—his dental records?’
‘Have a look,’ the neighbour said, with the dog straining on its leash. ‘If wood and plaster failed to survive, then what chance would you give a man’s records?’
It occurred to Utterson that there was still another in London who had known Henry Jekyll even more intimately than his doctors. Moreover, the widow Spratling had a vested interest in clearing the matter up as efficiently as possible. But how could he bring the claimant before her? And how, for that matter, would he convince the impostor to submit to her examinations? He decided to visit her anyway, if only for the excuse of enjoying her company again.
When he arrived at her street in Shepherd’s Bush, however, he was surprised to find Terrence standing dumbly on the corner.
‘Good afternoon, Terrence—are you supposed to be out?’
The boy had his hands buried deep in his pockets and was staring fixedly across the street, where some half-dressed girls were skipping rope: ‘Two little dickie birds sitting on a wall, one named Peter, the other named Paul.’
‘Come with me,’ Utterson said, but when he extended his hand Terrence shook him off brusquely.
‘Very well,’ said Utterson, frowning. ‘I shall consult with your mother.’
Terrence, still watching the girls, was eerily silent.
Perturbed, Utterson continued to the widow’s door, upon which he knocked with his jackal-headed cane. But for a long time there was no response.
‘One bright and pretty, the other dark and small …’
He was about to turn back to Terrence, seeking an explanation, when the door flew open.
The widow Spratling, looking as though she had just tumbled out of bed, was dragging a shawl over her shoulders.
‘Gabriel!’ she exclaimed. ‘I thought it was Terrence!’
‘May I have a word with you inside, Nora?’ Utterson asked—the noise from the neighbouring bone-grinding works, not to mention the trilling of the skipping girls, was grating on his nerves.
‘One full of feathers, one with none at all …’
The widow hesitated, her hand still tight on the door.
‘I shan’t be long,’ Utterson assured her, then took the liberty of stepping into the musty passage. ‘I certainly don’t mean to bother you,’ he said, removing his hat. ‘It’s just that the impostor I’ve mentioned to you, the fraudster claiming to be Henry Jekyll, has been going around—’
He was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. Boards creaking like ship timbers. And then a cheerful, terribly familiar voice:
‘Utterson! Good Lord, man—can I not get away from you?’
Utterson, seized with dread, looked up. And saw, standing at the top of the stairs, the Jekyll claimant himself, stuffing his shirttails into his trousers.
‘Just like old times, eh?’
Utterson, shrunk to the size of pin, turned to the widow, whose eyes were downcast, then back to the claimant, who was smiling wolfishly.
‘Why not come join us, old chap? Good times for all, what?’
Starved of air, Utterson span around and stormed into the street, where even Terrence had an impish gleam in his eye.
‘A wicked wench, is your mama …’ the boy said, in a mocking old man’s voice, and Utterson stared at him until he could bear it no more.
Then he took off in the direction of the city, fleeing the scene like a biblical catastrophe, and wondering, fleetingly, if he might really have lost his mind.
‘Fly away Peter, fly away Paul; don’t come back till the heavens fall.’
A Conspicious Absence
FORCED INTO UNEXPECTED detours by roadworks and bridge building, Utterson by the time he reached Gaunt Street had regained enough composure to order Poole into the drawing room.
‘There’s something I need to show to you, Poole,’ he announced in a strained voice. ‘A statement, written by your former master.’
‘By Dr. Jekyll?’ Poole asked, frowning.
‘That’s right.’
‘So you have seen him since … our meeting?’
‘What? No, no, not him. Not the impostor, for heaven’s sake. I mean a statement written by the real Henry Jekyll. A statement I collected from the dissecting rooms on that terrible night we found Hyde dead—you must remember it.’
Poole looked puzzled. ‘I recollect a document …’
‘A statement,’ said Utterson. ‘I brought it back here to read before returning to Jekyll’s home, where we summoned the police.’
Poole nodded. ‘Instructions as to property and bank accounts …’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You said the document contained instructions relating to property and bank accounts.’
Utterson nodded impatiently. ‘Yes, that’s what I said at the time. But I lied to you, Poole. I was trying to protect your master, and did not want to sully the name of a good friend.’
Poole’s brow furrowed.
‘The statement was shocking,’ Utterson explained. ‘Unspeakable. I read it just two or three times, yet it has festered in my mind ever since. And now, provided you feel capable of taking in its content, I wish to show it to you.’
‘You retained this document?’
‘In my safe upstairs. With a corroborating statement by Hastie Lanyon, which you must also read.’
‘If you insist, sir.’
‘It is not a matter of insisting. You must want to know the truth. And keep in mind you will very probably be appalled. Your faith in many things will be tested. But it is in your best interests, whether you know it or not. Are you ready?’
‘I suppose so, sir.’
Utterson ascended the stairs to his business room, where he opened his safe—with unexpected difficulty—and reached for the innermost compartment. He felt around but the compartment seemed empty. He leaned in for a closer examination. No statements. He foraged in some other compartments, opened a few folders, but nothing. A wave of panic surged through him and slowly ebbed.
There was no need to be alarmed. The statements were in the safe somewhere, th
ey had to be. He vividly remembered locking them away on that ghastly night, just as he remembered seeing them several times in the years after that.
So he searched every compartment again. He opened every box. He transferred everything to his desk—wills, deeds, keepsakes—and laid it all out. He combed through it all exhaustively. It took him close to half an hour, yet he still could find no statement by Henry Jekyll, and no corroborating narrative by Hastie Lanyon.
‘Will sir be requiring dinner?’
With a jolt Utterson became aware of his butler standing primly at the door. ‘What?’ he snapped.
‘Will sir be requiring dinner?’ Poole asked, eyebrows arched.
Utterson sensed mockery. ‘You took them, I suppose.’
‘Sir?’
‘You opened the safe and removed the statements, did you?’
‘Sir?’
‘Did he order you to do it? The impostor? Did he tell you to destroy them?’
Poole looked aggrieved. ‘Are you suggesting that I stole something from your safe, sir?’
‘Well, did you?’
‘Sir,’ the butler said, gulping, ‘you must know that I would never do such a thing. You must know that I could never do such a thing.’
‘Oh yes?’ Utterson said, but could not challenge Poole’s manifest sincerity. ‘Well, the fact remains that this safe has been broken into. And some very important documents have been removed. There is no doubt about it, none at all. So what explanation can there be?’
The butler tried to be helpful. ‘Is it not possible,’ he suggested, ‘that you removed the documents yourself?’
‘Of course not!’ Utterson said. ‘Do you think I would not remember if I had?’ Then a thought occurred to him. ‘Last night,’ he said, ‘last night … at the impostor’s dinner, I mentioned the statements … I even mentioned that they were safely stored. And now that I think of it … yes, that’s right’—he looked at Poole—‘you said there were noises in the house last night, did you not?’
‘I heard you moving about, sir.’
‘Yes, but what makes you think it was me? Did you see me? Did you actually see me?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then why would it be me? I was sleeping like a bear. So why would I be moving around the house?’
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Seek Page 6