Norton, Andre - Novel 39

by The Jekyll Legacy (v1. 0)

With the memory came disturbing realization. They were dead now, all of them dead. Poole and Utterson, victims of violence. Dr. Jekyll a suicide, by his own hand. Or could it be called his own hand, once transformed into that of Edward Hyde's? And was Hyde actually dead after all?

  Hester thought of Newcomen's sudden, unexpected revelation tonight. Unexpected, unwelcome, and unnerving. What could it mean?

  The question, like the grave itself, was an empty one. Open graves, open doors; neither truly revealed their secrets. And unopened, they afforded no real protection.

  How difficult it had been for her to reject Bertha's suggestion of staying until she slept! Partially it was out of consideration for the girl after so long and arduous a day. Then there was the matter of her own pride; a stubborn unwillingness to admit the extent of the trepidation that assailed her. Beyond which, the kernel of the difficulty; there would be no sleep for her this night, not after what Inspector Newcomen had so abruptly announced.

  Afraid? Hester lowered herself on the pillow atop the bolster. Of course she was afraid, but the worst of it was that she did not know what she feared.

  Was it Hyde dead, or Hyde alive? Or dead-alive?

  There had been a time when all of these considerations would have seemed impossible. That Hyde existed or had ever existed was in itself a defiance of what she had hitherto accepted as natural law.

  "And what of you, Father?" she murmured. "Would you accept such evidence in your quest for absolute Good and absolute Evil? And would you conceive that the living proof resided in a member of your own family?"

  Despite herself, for a fleeting moment this notion brought a genuine smile to her lips. She frowned it away quickly as she recalled Albert Prothore's advice. Upon hearing about the opening of the grave, he had urged Hester to leave the house immediately and take residence in a hotel. "If not, I am certain my sister would be happy to afford you temporary accommodations," he told her.

  Only her insistence and the knowledge that she still had a partial staff in residence prevailed over his strongly voiced concerns. He then suggested that Inspector Newcomen post an officer on duty to guard the premises.

  To this Newcomen demurred, and rightly so. Nothing had occurred here to indicate a threat of possible danger; under such circumstances the best he could do was to alert the regular patrolman assigned to the area around the square. "But mind the locks," he said.

  The admonition was unnecessary. Hester had indeed minded the locks, each and every one, after the two men took their departure. Now there was nothing more until morning. Though sleep was beyond her grasp, she could at least close her eyes and attempt whatever measure of rest attainable.

  Turning out the lamp, she snuggled into the warmth of the quilt. There was still a faint glow from the embers in the fireplace that did little more than add a reddish cast to the darkness. Beyond the window the night wind whispered promises of autumnal chill to come.

  For a moment Hester's thoughts strayed to those mean streets she had traversed with Captain Ellison, and the forlorn denizens who huddled there. What would be their fate when winter came?

  Once again she renewed her vow. Whatever the extent of the estate, a portion of it would be devoted to aid the plight of those less favored by fortune. It was not pity alone that moved her, but gratitude, upon reflecting how close she had come to sharing a similar lot.

  Now she had been spared. And tonight had in many ways proved a revelation; an assurance that she could accustom herself to the standards of polite society, and that not all of its members were boorish ogres. The Farlies had accepted her without question, and Albert Prothore was once again appearing in quite another guise. It was as if all the stiffness and starch that had irritated her at the first could be put off like a coat. In fact with his family his friendliness and small signs of concern for her had been oddly warming in a way.

  It was almost as if she met him for the first time, but then this had been a night filled with new experiences. Her meal was one of them; Hester had known hospitality before, but this was a revelation of what it meant to really dine out. And of course the theater was pure enchantment.

  Hester sighed. Why couldn't that enchantment have continued? Why did the evening have to end with the ominous news delivered by Inspector Newcomen?

  No answer, save for the whisper of the wind.

  And here in her room the reddish glow dwindled and died. The darkness deepened like that which yawned from an open grave—the open, empty grave of Edward Hyde. She was fleeing that grave now, running through the tangle of windswept streets where shadows slumped in mute misery.

  Shadows that can rise out of the grave can come into your house, into your life, come to take it over. All she could do was flee as she did now, running upstairs through the crooked corridors of the house, clutching the keys of salvation.

  Hester blinked, awakening with a start to find herself actually holding keys in her hand. She must have dozed off without realizing it, and it was then that the dream came.

  Presently it was fading as swiftly as it had come, and while she grasped the keys, the other elements eluded her. Something about trying to escape from Hyde, something to do with seeking salvation. The Salvation Army? That hadn't been a paff of her dream, though in it she recognized some of the streets she'd traveled with Captain Ellison.

  No, salvation lay somewhere else. That's why she had taken a tight grip on the keys. And now she must take a tight grip on herself until she remembered. It was important to remember.

  Time ticked away. There were moments when she dropped beneath the surface of slumber but not into the deeper depths of dream. Hester had only a vague awareness of the coming of dawn and none whatsoever of Bertha's arrival until silence was broken as the girl set down the tea tray.

  "Good morning, miss."

  Her words were muffled, almost inaudible. Hester glanced toward the girl quickly and found herself staring at a tearstained face. "Why, Bertha!" she exclaimed. "You've been crying! What's the matter?"

  "They've gone," the girl said. "Cook, 'Annah, Patty, and Ratsby, too—packed up and took off, th' lot o' 'em. Must of cleared out afore dawn, 'cause when I comes down to the kitchen at sunup there weren't a soul to be seen."

  Hester was sitting upright now. "You mean they left without notice? Surely Mrs. Dorset could have waited on some sort of explanation for such conduct."

  Bertha shook her head. "It was she as stirred up the others. Right tiddly, nipping at that bottle regular an' making out she'd been took with the vapors. Scared, that's the truth of it."

  "I know she was upset because the courtyard door might have been tampered with," Hester said, nodding. "But she seemed recovered by the time I went to dinner last evening."

  "'Yde," Bertha said. "She kept on about a Mr. 'Yde as used to come 'ere in the olden days. Mostly it was 'Annah she spoke to, but Ratsby and I 'eard our share." A quaver crept into the girl's voice. "Is it true, miss? Did this Mr. 'Yde shut himself away in that place across the courtyard an' take his own life there?"

  "It seems so, Bertha." Hester firmed both face and voice into a counterfeit of composure. "But there's nothing to be afraid of."

  "Dorset said different. She said as 'ow this Edward 'Yde's ghost comes 'an goes in the night."

  Hester swung around the side of the bed and fitted her feet into the slippers waiting there on the floor. "I'm surprised at her." She strove to keep her tone light. "And even more surprised that Hannah, at least, would believe such nonsense."

  "Per'aps they didn't at first," Bertha said. "But after Dorset told what that inspector 'ad tp say last night about the empty grave—"

  "Eavesdropping!" Composure failed Hester for a moment. "I didn't realize she overheard us."

  "She 'eard, all right. Said as 'ow it proved 'is ghost was rised and on the prowl. A evil spirit, come 'ere to make mischief."

  "So that's what frightened them off into the night." Hester nodded as she slid her arms into the robe that Bertha now held outstretched. "I app
reciate your loyalty in not joining them. You're a brave girl."

  "Thank you, miss." The accompanying smile brightened her tearstained countenance. "Someone needs to stay 'an look after you. An' now as we've new locks on all the doors—"

  With the words came the recollection Hester had been searching for at the time of awakening. Now, as the girl opened the drapes, she called to her.

  "Bertha—do you remark what I did with that card Mr Hobbs gave me?"

  'The locksmith, miss?" The girl nodded. "I do believe you set it in the tray on the 'all table. You wants it now?"

  "Please to stay with me while I dress. Then we'll go down together. Between us we should be able to manage something for breakfast."

  Hester dressed, grateful as much for Bertha's presence as for her assistance. The sky beyond the window cast a gray gloom over the garden and courtyard below. Even after Bertha brought the gas log to a blaze, it could not totally dispel damp chill and dim shadow from the sunless world without.

  Further fires were kindled for comfort when they descended the stairs together, to which Hester added the cheer of candles. Assured that locksmith Hobbs's card was resting where Bertha had recalled, Hester pocketed it and led the way to the kitchen.

  Mrs. Dorset's departure had indeed been precipitate, to judge from the state in which they found the cook's domain. A good thing she and the others, like Bradshaw, had not waited departure to demand wages; none would be forthcoming under these sorry circumstances.

  Hester checked the thought with a rueful smile. How quickly one who had spent a lifetime of near poverty could slip into the imperious attitudes of the upper classes! All it took was a few days and a few pounds to transform the country mouse into a tyrannical tigress. Given their lifetimes in such a situation, it was a bit easier to understand Lady Ames and Miss Scrimshaw. On the other hand, Captain Ellison and Mrs. Kirby were not of that mind; they had chosen the right course, and she must follow it, too.

  But now there was another course to follow, once she and Bertha concluded breakfasting. Reaching into her skirt pocket, Hester pulled out Mr. Hobbs's card and handed it to the girl.

  "Do you know this address?" she asked.

  Bertha nodded without looking at the lines of print. "Yes, miss. The shop's around the bystreet an' two squares down."

  "Good. I would like you to go there now and see if you can fetch the locksmith for me."

  Once Bertha was dispatched on her errand, Hester set about gathering up the breakfast dishes. Midway through the task she paused, setting them down again with a smile of rueful realization. Hands such as hers were not destined to be immersed in dishwater. What would Lady Ames remark upon seeing her thus engaged? More to the point, what would Bertha say?

  Here, servants seemed more snobbish than their masters. It was the one trait that both cut across all classes of society and at the same time bound them together.

  Hester forced herself to be seated. From this vantage the kitchen appeared vast, indeed; she would not wish to spend much time in it alone, nor condemn herself to solitary confinement in any of the rooms of this formidable house. She wondered that Bertha was not afraid to stay; perhaps she judged it preferable to the prospect of life in the streets.

  Whatever the reason, Hester was grateful for her presence, and regretted even this temporary absence.

  More quickly than she would have thought, the absence ended as Bertha signaled her arrival at the front door.

  Hurrying down the hall to admit her, Hester was pleasantly surprised to see that the girl was not alone. Standing beside her, a portly, ginger-mustached man bobbed his head in greeting.

  "'Obbs, m'um, at your service."

  Hester smiled. "Thank you for responding so quickly."

  The locksmith squinted toward Bertha through rimless spectacles as he spoke. "Caught me at the proper time, she did. I 'ad me a commission to fit winder-catches for a green-grocer's shop clear off on Oxford Street, but word come not to 'urry, seeing as 'ow the place burned down last night,

  His bespectacled stare was fixed on the hall beyond the point where Hester stood in the open doorway. "Your gel here says it's a matter of some emergency. If you'd oblige me with a look ..."

  "By all means." Hester stepped back. "Do please to come in."

  Hobbs entered, then followed her along the hall. Behind them Bertha closed and locked the front door, then hastened to catch up to them as they neared the kitchen.

  "Problems 'ere, m'um?" the locksmith asked. "I 'ope nothing went amiss with our work yesterday. It's only I've young Sethers to reckon with. A likely lad, but still a new 'pprentice—"

  "There are no complaints." Hester cut him off quickly. "You did an excellent job. It's just that there is probably more that must be done."

  "Probably, m'um?"

  "See for yourself and tell me what you think." Hester started toward the hall door that bisected the servants' quarters beyond, glancing toward Bertha as she passed. "If we have visitors at the front door while I'm gone, call out to them to wait. Then come directly to me."

  Bertha's eyes widened. "Yer means to go inside over there?"

  "Do not concern yourself, Bertha. Mr. Hobbs will be with me. Just stay here and do up the dishes."

  Without waiting for a reply, Hester took a candlestick from the table, opened the door, and moved down the narrow unlighted corridor with Mr. Hobbs following directly behind. Pausing before the exit at the far end of the hallway, she reached for her keys and peered down at them in semi-darkness.

  The locksmith moved up beside her. "Let me give you a hand, m'um," he said, and did just that, extending a pudgy palm.

  The eyes behind the spectacles were keen, the fleshy fingers adroit. In a matter of moments the door was open and they moved into drab daylight beyond.

  The back garden stood untended, a wilted wilderness overgrown with weeds. Hester reminded herself it would be needful to employ the services of a gardener in addition to other requirements for a household staff.

  Now they were crossing the courtyard, footfalls crunching dead leaves, scattered victims of autumn winds. By the time they reached the entryway to the building on the far side, Hester was grateful for its shelter.

  There was only the single door here on this side of the gabled two-story structure, but no lock had been affixed to it, and both the metal knob and the keyhole plate beneath were rusted.

  Mr. Hobbs stubbed a finger outward. "Where paint 'as peeled, you can see rot in the wood. A lock won't 'elp; what's needed is a new door."

  Hester nodded. "There are other things." She started reaching toward the doorknob but Mr. Hobbs intercepted her.

  "Allow me, m'um."

  His efforts resulted in a grating of rusty hinges and a surge of damp issuing from the open doorway. Darkness lay beyond.

  Hester gripped the base of her candlestick; the taper it held was fresh, the wick still white. She turned to address the locksmith but he had already anticipated her request. A moment later the candle put forth a blossom of flame.

  Mr. Hobbs reached forward. "Let me take that for you, m'um," he said. "Best I go first."

  They started forward into the musty murk of a hall entryway, flanked by a wide door. Again it was the locksmith who anticipated Hester's movements by opening the door, giving access to a large room cluttered with boxes and dusty tables.

  Mr. Hobbs glanced at his companion. "Do you wish lock for this?"

  "I doubt there is a need," Hester replied. The locksmith went over to two doors at the right. The first proved to be a closet, but the second revealed a steeply slanted stairwell descending into darkness that defied the candlelight.

  Hobbs's hesitation was broken by Hester's nod. Slowly he set foot upon the uppermost treads. "Take care," he murmured.

  His words were punctuated by the creak of stairs protesting the weight they bore. The air was more damp below and the darkness deeper, but the light of the flame was sufficient to disclose the contents of the cellar.

  The locksmith
frowned. "What need d'ye suppose he 'ad for all that lumber?"

  "I haven't the faintest idea. Dr. Jekyll purchased this property from the heirs of a surgeon named Donner. Perhaps the original owner stored materials here against a time when he might enlarge the building."

  Mr. Hobbs shrugged. "I take it Dr. Jekyll 'ad no such plans."

  Hester allowed her nod to serve as a reply. She had no desire to discuss Henry Jekyll's plans, or even to speculate what they might have been.

  Upon turning, it was she who led the way back up the stairs, into the tiny hall, and up to the door at its end. Here again the knob turned easily, and once more there was a telltale rasp of hinges as the door swung open.

  This time the grating sound echoed, rising and resounding with an eery pitch through the recesses of the chamber beyond.

  Like a scream, Hester told herself. This room must be the one described as Dr. Jekyll's surgical theater. How many times had real screams risen here? How much pain had poured forth, how much blood had been shed? This scene of suffering—had it also been the scene of death?

  Very likely so, for she remembered hearing about Mr. Hyde having entered from the bystreet by "the old dissecting room door." Which meant that either Dr. Donner or Dr. Jekyll, perhaps both, had brought cadavers here. If so, for what purposes?

  Since this was a surgical theater, its first proprietor may have performed autopsies for the benefit of medical students. But Dr. Jekyll had no students, at least not to her knowledge. Any dissections he conducted here must have been part of the process he described only as his "experiments"—a vague term used deliberately, and undoubtedly with good reason.

  Hester did not care to dwell upon that reason. Mr. Hobbs's words came as a welcome interruption to her thoughts.

  "I warrant you'll want a stout lock 'ere," he commented. "And a bit of oil on those 'inges while we're at it." His squint was directed through the open doorway and into the recesses of the room they were entering.

  To her relief there was no hint of horror in what the wavering candlelight dimly disclosed. If a table still stood in this room, it was completely obscured by the array of crates and boxes stacked and rising to obstruct a view of the glass-guarded cupboards on the far wall.