‘You might have been sleepwalking, sir.’
‘Sleepwalking?’
‘You’ve done it before, sir.’
‘Sleepwalk! Me?’
‘Aye, sir. You often walk around the house at night. You crash into walls and throw things on the floor, and mumble oaths.’
‘I throw things!’
‘In your sleep, sir.’
Utterson felt chilled. ‘And how long has this been going on?’
‘Since as long as I’ve been here.’
‘And why have you never bothered to mention it before?’
‘I thought it might embarrass you, sir.’
‘Embarrass me!’ Utterson felt stricken. ‘But …’
But he was tongue-tied.
‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ Poole ventured, ‘but do you think that might be the explanation? That you sleepwalked into the business room and opened the safe, and disposed of the documents in a daze?’
‘Yes …’ Utterson could see that Poole was offering a charitable solution, but under the circumstances it would have to suffice. ‘Yes, that must be it. Thank you, Poole, thank you. You may continue preparing dinner.’
He collected all his papers and stuffed them back into his safe, then closed the door tightly and keyed the locks. But all the time he was wondering how he could possibly be certain of anything, if he was no longer certain of himself.
A Mist Dispersed
IN THE MORNING Utterson arrived early at his desk, set out his inks, laid out a sheaf of legal paper, and as meticulously as possible, with a furiously scratching pen, began reconstructing Henry Jekyll’s full statement of the case.
Words, sentences, whole paragraphs knitted together with astonishing clarity—almost as if Utterson himself had composed them:
The worst of my faults was a certain impatient gaiety, a profound duplicity … those provinces of good and ill which divide and compound man’s dual nature … I managed to compound a drug … I knew I risked death … any drug that so potently shook the very fortress of identity …
Utterson, his tongue poking catlike from his lips, grew more and more excited as he filled page after page. Because he recognised Jekyll’s distinctive voice in everything he wrote:
I watched them boil and smoke … I drank off the potion … the most racking pains, a grinding of the bones, deadly nausea … I came to myself as if out of a great sickness … I knew myself to be more wicked, tenfold more wicked … I was aware that I was smaller, lighter and younger than Henry Jekyll … Edward Hyde was pure evil.
Occasionally, it was true, Utterson’s hand faltered a little, even stopped writing altogether; because the meaning of these words, seen starkly on paper, was undeniably strange: that a man could imbibe a potion and change into a different being? That he could shrink in height and become unrecognisable even to his closest friends? This certainly was not something that could be brought confidently before a court.
The drug shook the prison-house of my disposition … my evil was swift to seize the occasion … the pleasure began to turn towards the monstrous … my devil had long been caged, and came out roaring … a furious propensity to ill … the spirit of hell awoke in me and raged … a mist dispersed … a divided ecstasy of mind …
But now Utterson’s hand had quickened again, because the confession was written with such manifest sincerity that it was beyond the realms of fiction; and he, being a lawyer, was something of an expert in the mendacity of criminals. So this statement simply had to be true. It had to be.
Will Hyde die upon the scaffold? Or will he find the courage to release himself at the last minute? God knows; I am careless; this is the true hour of my death, and what is to follow concerns another than myself. Here then, as I lay down the pen, and proceed to seal up my confession, I bring the life of the unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end.
By now the office around him had filled with noise and bustle. Entirely oblivious, Utterson drew out a new sheaf of papers and started recreating the second document—Hastie Lanyon’s account of Hyde’s transformation back into Jekyll.
Twelve o’clock had scarce rung out over London when the knocker sounded … I found a small man crouching on the portico … he had a shocking expression on his face … his clothes were enormously too large for him … something abnormal and misbegotten in his very essence … ‘Have you got it?’ he cried … ‘This is it, sir,’ I said … a phial full of blood-red liquor, highly pungent … he sprang to it … he put the glass to his lips, and drank at one gulp … he seemed to swell … the features seemed to melt and alter … ‘Oh God!’ I screamed … for there before my eyes stood Henry Jekyll!
It was true, the voice in Lanyon’s letter—the syntax and the idioms—seemed remarkably similar to that of the first letter, the one composed by Henry Jekyll; but surely that should be no surprise, as Jekyll and Lanyon had known each other since Cambridge and circulated in the same galaxy afterwards. It was also to be admitted that Lanyon had mixed his dates at one point—claiming to have received written instructions from Jekyll both in January and several weeks earlier—but then, as Utterson knew, every man’s memory plays tricks on him occasionally. So in the end he was able to look at the two reconstructed documents with a great sense of personal achievement. He had certainly convinced himself, if he had convinced no other. And he was not losing his mind.
He summoned his head clerk.
‘Do you have a safe in your home, Mr. Guest?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir.’
‘Then a hiding place of some sort? Somewhere that you might store valuables?’
‘I can easily find one.’
Utterson made a noise of approval. ‘Over seven years ago my dear friend Hastie Lanyon charged me with the responsibility of storing a letter in his name, and opening it only upon his disappearance. Now, Mr. Guest, I am charging you with the task of secreting these two documents you see before you, and opening them only upon my disappearance. Do you think you are up to it?’
‘I suppose so, sir,’ Guest said, and frowned. ‘But may I enquire, sir, about the substance of the documents?’
‘They are statements relating to the crimes of Henry Jekyll—and that is all you need to know for now.’ Utterson passed them over. ‘Take them and show them to no one.’
‘Are you heading out, sir?’ Guest asked, for the lawyer was reaching for his cane.
‘I am—why?’
‘Mr. Spurlock is here to see you again.’
Utterson waved dismissively. ‘Mr. Slaughter can see him.’
‘Mr. Slaughter has a full schedule this morning, and Mr. Spurlock has already been waiting for some time, sir.’
‘Very well,’ replied Utterson, annoyed. ‘I shall see him, but no one else after that. Has there been any correspondence from Mr. Enfield, by the way?’
‘Nothing, sir; and nothing from the gentleman you engaged to look into it. Are you intending to attend the funeral of Sir Palfrey Bramble?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Sir Palfrey Bramble—it was in the papers, sir. He passed away in his bed on Friday night.’
‘Sir Palfrey? Are you certain?’
‘Certain as taxes, sir.’
Utterson remembered calling on the florid-faced explorer just a few days earlier; and now the man—corpulent, excitable, permanently flushed—was dead. It was one of those passings that evoke sadness but little surprise.
‘Well, that is sobering news indeed,’ said Utterson, without any real inclination to dwell on it. ‘In any case … send in Mr. Spurlock.’
Hudson Spurlock, dressed in all the colours of a harlequin, masqueraded as an importer of Persian finery but was widely known around town as a master thief. From his headquarters in the public houses around the Elephant and Castle he presided over a small army of swindlers, pickpockets, forgers and safecrackers, whom he daily dispatched to all corners of the city. His business with Utterson & Slaughter related strictly to some small claims cases, but as Utterson listened distracte
dly—Spurlock had been sued by a building contractor for failing to meet his debts—a rogue thought occurred to him.
‘Never mind about that,’ he said suddenly.
‘Never mind—?’
‘About your debts, Mr. Spurlock. I shall see to it that the case is prolonged indefinitely, and our services rendered at half—no, a quarter—of the customary fee.’
Spurlock blinked. ‘Very generous of you, Mr. Utterson, but you will forgive me for—’
‘By way of apology on my part, for keeping you waiting this morning, and failing to attend to you last week.’
‘Very gracious indeed.’ Spurlock fluffed the point of his beard. ‘And yet—and you will still forgive me for saying so—I’m not sure that the sins in this case warrant the penance.’
Utterson grunted. ‘You think my goodwill comes at a price?’
‘Just my naturally suspicious disposition, Mr. Utterson.’
‘Then your disposition does not deceive you, Mr. Spurlock.’
Spurlock’s smile showed a glint of gold. ‘You wish to draw upon my special skills, perhaps?’
‘A small favour, and time is of the essence.’
‘Then I am happy to be of assistance, Mr. Utterson—as long as it does not take me too far out of my way.’
‘By no means—it is very close to your base of operations, in fact.’
An hour later they were in Utterson’s Gaunt Street business room, inspecting the lawyer’s safe.
‘In truth I cannot say,’ the thief admitted. ‘There’s some scoring around the tumblers, to be sure, but the locks are aged to begin with.’
‘Still, they could have been picked?’
‘Do you keep the keys with you?’
‘At all times.’
‘Then it’s possible—if you were deep asleep, or passed out from drinking—that they might be lifted from you. Or the locks could have been twirled with the very best equipment. But still …’
‘Still …?’
‘It would need to be a master, Mr. Utterson, and there’s not a soul in this town as skilled as me.’
‘That you know of.’
‘I know most of ’em.’
‘But not all.’
‘No, not all.’
‘Then the fact remains—the safe could have been sprung, yes?’
Spurlock sniffed and smiled at the same time. ‘If that’s what you wish to hear, Mr. Utterson, then I’m happy enough to say it.’
Utterson ruminated for a moment, then looked again at the thief.
‘How would you like a completely clean bill, Mr. Spurlock?’
‘A completely clean bill, Mr. Utterson?’
‘No charges for services rendered by me—not now, and not ever again.’
The sparkle in Spurlock’s eye matched that of his tooth. ‘And what, if I might ask, is the price of your charity now, Mr. Utterson?’
The lawyer sighed but did not answer directly. ‘Can I call upon you tonight? Around midnight? Can I do that, Mr. Spurlock?’
The Darkness of the Dissecting Rooms
A STOREHOUSE OF INDIAN tea near the river had caught fire, the air was filled with fragrant smoke, and flurries of roasted tealeaves, like clouds of black pollen, were settling on every projection.
Hudson Spurlock, looking remarkably at home in a filthy broadcloth tunic and moleskins, had already warned Utterson he would not be lingering after the job was done: ‘I’ve got no love for Newgate,’ he said. The two men were lurking in shadows across the square from the Jekyll home, waiting for the house lights to dim, retreating deep into the darkness whenever constables appeared, peeking out whenever it was safe, puffing, stamping, and waving away the thickening drizzles of aromatic ash. But it was not until midnight that the last light in the place was extinguished, and even then Spurlock did not move at once.
‘A thief’s most important tool is patience,’ he whispered.
So Utterson, decidedly impatient, committed himself to further waiting. In fact, he was not even sure what he was going to do once inside the Jekyll home, but the need to find incriminating evidence—anything at all—had become overpowering. That very afternoon he had received a letter from the widow Spratling that seemed the final straw:
My Dearest Angel,
You must not think the worst of me, because things are not always as they seem. When the man calling himself Henry Jekyll arrived at my home yesterday, Terrence had left on an errand and the visitor suffered a fainting fit owing he said to his constricting clothes. He was loosening these articles upstairs and I was changing into something more presentable, in order to receive him in an appropriate manner, when you appeared at the door. I must say I am still unable to determine if the man is really Henry Jekyll or an impostor as you have claimed, so I have consented to another meeting with him, during which I intend to examine him more closely.
Your most faithful friend,
Nora
Utterson had enough experience with Bathshebas and even Jezebels to recognise a woman who was testing the shoals in a shifting stream. Nevertheless he was prepared to forgive Nora everything, all her chicanery, as long as he emerged victorious in the end. Indeed, he decided she would become even more desirable once he had accounted for the claimant—once the dragon had been slain by the angel.
‘Time enough,’ Spurlock decided suddenly. ‘Wait here awhile, Mr. Utterson, and keep a sharp eye out for peelers.’
Emerging from his reverie, Utterson watched as Spurlock ambled casually up the by-street, looking left and right, and drawing from his pocket a ring of rough-edged keys. Then, at the door of the dissecting rooms, the thief dropped to one knee and began inserting these blanks in the lock, testing each before settling on one that offered the most promise. This he started filing industriously as Utterson watched from afar.
There was an explosion in the distance and the gas lamps fluttered like startled spirits.
‘Evenin’ there, sir.’
Utterson was startled—he had noticed no approach—but quickly drew himself together. ‘Oh, hullo there, constable.’
‘Waitin’ for someone?’
‘A companion of mine,’ Utterson managed. ‘We were forced to make a detour because of the fire.’
The portly PC, who bore a Yorkshire accent, looked up at the reddened clouds. ‘So you’ve been in the vicinity of the fire, have you?’
‘A most distressing sight.’
‘Reached the fish market yet, has it?’
Utterson, doing his best not to look in Spurlock’s direction, nodded distractedly. ‘Yes, the … I mean, the fish market?’
‘Billingsgate Market.’
‘Yes, I … I don’t know. It might have.’
The PC looked him up and down. ‘Not from this part of town, are you?’
‘Passing through, you know. From the south.’
‘South London?’
‘Suffolk.’
‘I’m from York originally.’
‘Fancy that.’
‘Well, good night to you then, sir.’
‘And to you, constable.’
Utterson waited until the PC had waddled on, testing shutter-bolts and door-handles, before looking again up the by-street. But suddenly Spurlock was nowhere to be seen. Panicking, he crept over to the dissecting rooms, looking frantically in every direction, but there was no sign of the thief anywhere. Then he heard a hiss from the adjoining courtyard and the thief, to his relief, came out of the shadows.
‘All done,’ Spurlock announced.
‘The door?’
‘See for yourself.’
Utterson turned, saw the door was slightly ajar, and nodded with satisfaction. ‘Then I shall see you again in Bedford Row, Mr. Spurlock?’
‘When I need some services rendered,’ Spurlock said, ‘you will.’ The thief flashed his tooth and dissolved again into the darkness.
Alone, Utterson extended a hand to the hideous door, pushed it open by degrees and, with a sharp intake of breath, stepped through.
The room was as dark as a crypt. There was a powerful odour of furniture polish and disturbed dust. He stood motionless for a good minute, simply reacquainting himself with the building’s abrasive spirit—this was, after all, where Jekyll had conducted his dreadful experiments—then struck a match, lit his bull’s-eye lantern and proceeded warily across the floor.
Almost immediately he tripped over a protuberance and fell in a clattering heap.
When he picked up the lantern, which was flaring wildly, he saw that his foot had snagged on the curled leg of a statue—a Hindoo statue, like something belonging to Sir Palfrey Bramble. In fact, now that he raised the lamp and directed its light about the chamber, he saw numerous other treasures arranged around the room, along with many other articles concealed under dustsheets.
He was lifting the hem of one of these robes—he saw a tantalising glimpse of a Louis Quinze lampstand—when there was a shuffling sound and the grinding of a key in the lock.
Someone was entering the rooms from the other side!
Swiftly Utterson extinguished the lantern and stumbled backwards. He reached the street just as the opposing door creaked open. He fell outside onto the pavement, eased the blistered door closed and whisked across to the refuge of an alleyway.
Panting, pressed back against the bricks, he watched as the dissecting rooms opened and the sooty little fellow with the odious face, together with the brutish butler called Baxter, slipped out into the gaslight. The two men looked around with no exceptional caution—clearly they hadn’t noticed him—and then padded down the by-street, heading purposefully into the night.
Fortifying himself with a few lungfuls of tea-stained air, Utterson consulted his pocket watch—it was already one o’clock—and resolved to follow them to hell and back if necessary, for he could tell that they were bent on infamy.
A Hellish Glow
UTTERSON STALKED THE men foxlike for twenty minutes. When they rounded corners he hastened forward, fearing he might lose sight of them; when they took straight pathways he reverted to a comfortable distance; and whenever they gave any indication that they might turn around he ducked with alacrity into the nearest alcove. But the two men seemed oblivious of his presence, chatting freely, looking up at the hellish clouds, kicking sometimes at refuse on the pavement, the smaller man shuffling along in a manner that to Utterson seemed eerily reminiscent of Mr. Hyde.
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Seek Page 7