by Robert Bloch
Hester, having been trained how to properly open an envelope, looked around in vain for a letter knife, then had to substitute a hairpin.
Dear Miss Lane:
If it is at all possible, can you wait upon me at the chambers of Utterson and Williams as soon as possible? Your information concerning Mr. Jekyll is of the utmost importance, or I would not make this request in so abrupt a manner.
Robert Guest
Abrupt indeed, very near the border of open rudeness. Yes, Hester considered, there was a feeling of some disaster, that time itself was a matter of high importance. Who was Mr. Jekyll?
She turned up the one extravagance she had known her father to indulge in—the silver watch fastened to a twisted bowknot of the same metal that he had presented to her in a quite offhand manner some four years back, so that she might time the mail and make sure always that his pile of letters was ready to be collected at the village post office. It was slightly after two o'clock—she must be back here by four if she were to eat and then get dressed for her adventure of the evening. It depended upon just how far away these "chambers" were. In the Temple, of course, she had the address given in the advertisement to direct her.
Another tap at the door, or rather a hammering of knuckles that was certainly not Mrs. Carruthers, even if that lady was as provoked as Hester believed her to be. She picked up the book inscribed with the name L. Jekyll, which she was bringing with her to show the solicitor, and caught up her damp coat again.
At another knock she opened to find Dorry.
"Please, mizz, she says there be a cab a-waitin' an' yah should know—" That was the longest sentence she had ever heard Dorry say, and the girl was already edging backward, ready to scuttle down the back stairs.
"Thank you—" But Dorry was gone, her badly cobbled boots pounding in her haste.
A cab sent—Hester hoped that meant sent and paid for. She had certainly received no funds in advance from Miss Scrimshaw.
As they rattled away through the growing fog, she shivered, drawing her coat closer about her in spite of its dampness. The inside of the cab smelt of horse, and also of what she thought must be a cigar. On her empty stomach the combination did not sit easily.
The journey seemed endless but of course it wasn't. They drew up before a door and a man in the decent blacks of a clerk handed her out, making some neutral comment on the weather. Londoners, and rightly, could always discuss the weather, there was so much of it—mostly unpleasant, Hester thought. But her greeter was paying the cab driver, so that small worry was assuaged.
She was ushered through a room with several desks, three of which were occupied by younger men dressed much as her escort, as far as she could tell by the light of candles. It would seem that even at this late date Utterson and Williams had made no change in their lighting.
Just before she reached the door at the other end it was opened, and the man standing within eyed her with a keenness that somehow fitted his sharp nose and his very correct tall cravat, which also hinted of earlier years.
"Mr. Guest?" she asked hesitatingly.
His thin-lipped mouth quivered a fraction, perhaps that was the best he could do for a welcoming smile.
"Ah, no, Miss Lane. I am Utterson. May I make you known to Inspector Newcomen?" He indicated a second man, also half hidden by the lack of proper lighting, though there was a lamp in Utterson's office.
If the man of law was as dried and blanched as his own parchments, this burly, wide-shouldered stranger, whose manners at their introduction moved him to no more than a nod of the head, suggested strength and a kind of obstinacy, with his square chin, weathered skin, and small eyes that never seemed still. They darted up and down her own figure now, Hester thought, like a pair of those black beetles that ran from the light at night if one had reason to go into the nether regions of a house.
Her own chin went up and she did not acknowledge that introduction at all, but spoke to Utterson with some of the strong reserve her father's daughter could use upon occasion.
"I was asked to meet with Mr. Robert Guest. He is not here?"
Utterson indicated the man who had escorted her in. "This is Mr. Guest. There was a very good reason for all our obtuseness, Miss Lane, as we are ready to explain. But pray, do sit down, and you must have some tea."
Somehow she found herself seated in a chair, a steaming cup at her hand, and beside it on the desk an ebony and silver biscuit box that seemed well filled. But she was certainly not to be so easily won as that! She looked straightly at Utterson, who had gone to the chair behind the desk and was now seated there, his fingertips together pushing in and out a little as he spoke.
"You surely understand, Miss Lane, that when an advertisement such as you made answer to is published in the paper, there are a great many people who will guess that it may mean something of value to the answerer. It is thought better therefore that another name be used to weed out such answers. Guest is partly involved in this matter and he suggested that his be the one."
Neither Guest nor the big man had seated themselves. Newcomen had edged along the wall a little, until he was almost beside the door, while the clerk had come to stand by his employer. She could understand Utterson's argument, of course. But there was something wrong—she thought that most of it stemmed from the big man, and she resolutely decided it better to ignore him entirely.
From under her coat she took the book she had wrapped in paper and then spoke to Mr. Utterson.
"As you know, my name is Hester Lane, I am from the province of Quebec in Canada. My father was Harrison Lane. He was not Canadian by birth, he was from England. But he never discussed the past with me. Being a scholar of independent means he spent most of his time in study, and he had me educated privately so that I could serve as his amanuensis. My mother died when I was a very small child."
She paused. Her throat felt dry and the tea scent tempted her. At that same moment Guest poured a like cup for his employer, who raised it and took a sip. The clerk did not serve the man by the door. Hester was overtempted, she drank thirstily and the warmth within her allayed some of her wariness.
"Also, his employment among his books precluded his having many acquaintances. We entertained no relatives. He never spoke of any and most of his correspondence concerned his research—"
"Which was on what subject, Miss Lane?"
"The nature of good and evil," she answered simply. "He was trying to prove that neither absolute good nor complete evil could exist."
Utterson had raised his cup again. But without drinking this time, he set it down abruptly so that china clinked alarmingly against china. "Good and evil ..." he repeated.
"He had many discussions—with clergymen, with those connected with the courts and the like." Hester continued. "Then he became ill and was confined to his bed for some months. After his death I found this on his bedside table. He was somehow very attached to this volume. I saw him hold it in his hands many times, but he would never let anyone else touch it. When I opened it I found this—" She slid the cover open to show the bookplate and the signature across it. "Placed in between the pages was the advertisement I answered."
Utterson held the book closer to the light. "Is this your father's signature?"
"It might once have been."
"How is it"—Newcomen took a forceful step forward— "that a daughter don't know her own father's handwriting, miss?"
Utterson's hand had gone up almost in protest but Hester answered quietly.
"My father did not have full use of his hands—that is why he had me trained to help him. He had had, when I was quite young, a very serious attack of rheumatism and suffered thereafter very much. His fingers were drawn up and he could not straighten them out enough to use a pen."
The solicitor had been leafing through the book, but when he reached the section near the back he gave an exclamation, held the volume very close to the lamp, and then picked up a letter opener. To Hester's surprise he worked the point of the opene
r between two of the pages, proving that they had been pasted down. There was a tear but at last he got it open and brought out a double-folded sheet of paper, which he spread open with care, displaying a second and smaller one inside. From these he returned to study the book itself and then spoke to Hester with a new, crisp note in his voice.
"You did not know of the presence of these, Miss—Miss Lane?" He stumbled in an odd fashion over her name and something about him made Hester suddenly even more wary.
"That book was my father's favorite, sir. It was in his hands often, always by his side within reach, even when he was so ill. I do not read Greek—you will note that it is written in that tongue—and what my father wanted me to read to him he selected himself."
"Here now, what's all this?" Newcomen came away from his place at the door and made as if to grasp the two papers, but Utterson had planted one hand very firmly on them.
"This," he said, indicating the larger of the two, "is a marriage certificate signed by a Judge William Grafton. It states that he was present at the marriage of one Amy Dur-rant to Leonard Jekyll in the city of Montreal in the year 1865. It is also countersigned by a Forrest Wyman, vicar of St. Robert's Church of that same city.
"This"—he turned up the second piece of paper as if it were a card upon which rested a considerable wager—"is the baptismal certificate of Hester Durrant Jekyll, dated November twentieth of the year 1867—"
"My birthday!" said Hester before she thought.
"So." The big man swung halfway around so that he could see her the plainer in the subdued light. "Maybe you ain't Miss Lane—Jekyll is a name we have an interest in hereabouts. When did the doctor decide to send you here, miss? Nice neat plan—goes into hiding when his friend dies, waits a goodish spell till he thinks it's all forgot, and then makes a play-acting business of it! Where did you really come from, Miss Whateveryernamebe?"
Hester looked from that big rough face to that of the solicitor and back again. She had no idea what was going on—her head felt light. "Sir, I have never used any name save that of Lane. To my knowledge that was my father's and the one I had a right to. It is true that my mother was Amy Durrant. She died very young and I have no true memory of her. My father, as I have said, lived a very retired life, something he also asked of me.
"Upon his death I discovered that we had lived entirely on the payments of an annuity that he had purchased the year my mother died. He left nothing but the house and his library, which I was forced to sell in order to pay a few remaining debts—"
"What about the doctor? No money from him, eh? Left his blood kin to go hungry? That's not the way I've heard that he did things. When did he meet you—and where? Went to Canada, eh? So that's why we couldn't find him to have a few words. And you knew it!" He almost roared that at Utterson. "Set it all up—advertisement in the paper . . . and young lady, poor orphan, come to get her rights and—"
Utterson pushed back a little from the desk, though he still kept his hand on the papers. "You forget yourself, Inspector," he said in an icy voice. "I am by profession an officer of the court, or did you not know that? There is nothing illegal about this matter. As for Miss Lane—Miss Jekyll here—I knew nothing of her existence until this afternoon."
"Ha!" The man Utterson addressed as "Inspector" made that one exclamation forceful enough to deny everything he had heard. "Where's the doctor?"
"I don't know any doctor," she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. "I came to England three months ago with Major Jeffrey Ames's daughter. She is only twelve and her mother died last year. The major could not arrange leave to bring her to her grandmother's—she is Lady Ames—so he hired me as her governess."
"And you are with Miss Ames now?" That was Utterson.
"I was there until last week, sir. But Lady Ames desired a governess with more experience of London life. She was able to find one and—"
'Turned you off clip and clean then, eh?" Newcomen nodded. "And the doctor, he had nothing to do with all this coming and going?"
"Sir, I do not know any doctor. As for my living, I have this very day been able to find a very pleasing and promising position with the magazine The British Lady. You may inquire of Miss Scrimshaw, the editor. I had written some things in
Canada and she was pleased to publish them a year or so ago. Now, I must go." Somehow Hester found she was able to stand up and put out her hand for the mistreated book and the documents it had concealed. "Miss Scrimshaw has already given me an assignment to work on."
"My dear young lady." There was more warmth in Utter-son's voice than she had heard previously. "There is good reason to believe that you may be related to Dr. Jekyll," he said, still holding the papers. "Unfortunately, the doctor disappeared some months ago under circumstances that are difficult to explain. Should our future discoveries prove to be of an unpleasant kind"—he hesitated a moment—"Doctor Jekyll would have wanted his estate to go to his kin."
"Was that blackguard Hyde kin then, too?" snorted the other.
"Hyde!" Utterson's voice was cold. "Hyde was kin to the devil. He certainly imposed on Jekyll shamefully. At least the doctor was rid of him at last."
"Rid o' him? Mr. Utterson, none of us will be rid of that one, dead or alive, until we get answers to a good peck of questions." The inspector shook his head, but Utterson was already speaking to Hester.
"Guest will get you a cab, Miss Jekyll. And you will hear from us as to any progress in this sorry affair."
Her hand shook involuntarily as if to raise it in denial of that strange name. One could not just be reborn—as it were—so easily^ But it could well be that Mr. Utterson was wrong—even as much as he gave the impression of being indeed a master of legality.
"My papers, if you please, sir."
He seemed almost reluctant to gather the notes into the book, wrap the paper loosely around it, and hand it back to her.
"Be very careful of those," he said.
"I will," she promised.
From now on, Hester told herself, she must be very careful indeed—perhaps of more than papers.
Chapter 7
Once Hester was back in the cab, which luckily Guest had paid for, she fingered the paper-wrapped book, trying to remember everything that had been said in that lamplighted room.
The presence of the big man had come as a surprise; she had not expected to be talking to a police officer, and Inspector Newcomen's manner and questions were rude and impertinent. But it was Mr. Utterson who most deeply disturbed her.
What troubled Hester most was his revelation regarding her father's name. Could it possibly be true? If so, then at some point her father and this mysterious Dr. Jekyll had colluded in a conspiracy of silence.
Most disturbing of all, of course, was the question of her own identity. Nor did the problem end there. If Hester Lane was indeed Hester Jekyll, she had inherited far more than a mere change of name this afternoon. There might be a legacy involved; unfortunately, however, there were other involvements as well. The most puzzling, and possibly perilous, was the question of where she stood with the police. Did they actually consider her an accomplice of Dr. Jekyll's in a scheme to plunder his own estate? Had that estate already been squandered away, and was Mr. Utterson anxious to establish her as a relative so that she might become responsible for its debts? Or worse still, an accessory to his disappearance, mayhap his death?
But she must not allow herself such thoughts. It was this sort of reasoning, this propensity for imagining the worst, that led to the secretiveness of her father, the bitter austerity of Mr. Utterson, the omnipresent hostility and suspicion of Inspector Newcomen. As for herself, whether Lane or Jekyll she was still Hester, and Hester she would remain. This above all, to thine own self be true —
Outside the fog was thick; passersby disappeared into its depths and vehicles vanished. Clutching the wrapped book and papers, Hester was tempted to hurl her parcel into the murk in hopes it too might be swallowed up without a trace.
But that w
ould solve nothing in the end; the problems that had been posed would still remain, and right now it was time for other considerations. The events of the afternoon had definitely dashed hopes of a possible immediate inheritance. Under the circumstances it was much more practical for her to take heed of Miss Scrimshaw's instructions for the evening listed in the note she'd sent round. Pleasing an editor would provide a present source of income; heeding the summons of a solicitor had only resulted in a gratis cab ride.
Hester sat back. Somewhat to her surprise, she found that she was shivering. Tonight's plans would definitely call for warmer apparel. And had she not promised herself to execute Miss Scrimshaw's orders she would thankfully content herself with the cold comfort of her room.
Luckily she did return in time for high tea, which was offered on the massive dining room table. Since this was a meal her landlady shared, there was no skimping. Even the tea itself was of better quality than the one Dorry fetched in the morning. Hester's main difficulty was avoiding direct answers to Mrs. Carruthers's indirect questions regarding where she had been this afternoon.
Hester finally escaped that inquisition but she was well aware she had left Mrs. Carruthers dissatisfied, and there might come a time, not too far in the future, when it would be necessary for her to find other quarters. The problem she faced now was not getting out of the house, for Mrs. Carruthers's nephew had not yet returned. But the landlady would surely have the door locked after he did, and to awaken the house later would provide the last touch to making sure she would be out of a room.
She hurriedly changed into her oldest and shabbiest dress. The macintosh and hat must be discarded for a shawl. She unpinned her watch regretfully and refastened it within the folds of the shawl, determined to have a means of keeping an eye on the time.
