Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Was Not

by Sequeira, Christopher;

  My cab pulled up outside number 221B just as the cab that had been Jekyll’s drew away. I tossed the cabby some coins and rushed inside. “Jekyll!” I called, “Jekyll!” as I mounted the stairs but halfway up I encountered Mrs Hudson coming down.

  “Dr Jekyll’s just gone to your rooms,” said she. “I trust you’ll both be dining tonight—”

  I worked my way around the landlady as gently yet swiftly as I could and hurried to our rooms. Jekyll was not in the parlour but I could hear sounds coming from his bedroom.

  “Jekyll!” I called. “I must talk with you, Jekyll!”

  “Not now, Holmes,” came the voice of Henry Jekyll.

  “Jekyll, this is urgent,” I persisted.

  “Go away!” he countered.

  “Jekyll,” said I. “I know about Hyde.”

  There was silence and, to be frank, I was by no means sure in my own mind the exact nature of the relationship between Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Again there was silence for several moments and then there came a guttural rasping hiss. “Go away!”

  I tried the door to Jekyll’s room again but it was locked.

  “Mrs Hudson!” I called downstairs. “I need your key to Dr Jekyll’s room.”

  While she took out her keys I grabbed my singlestick.

  “Is something the matter?” called the landlady.

  “Now, please, Mrs Hudson!”

  Mrs Hudson duly produced the duplicate key and waited, peering in, partly curious and partly concerned.

  I unlocked the door and looked inside. The room was in darkness for Jekyll had not lit the lamp. The strange voice that had issued from the room told me Jekyll was not alone.

  “Mrs Hudson,” I said. “Send someone for a policeman.”

  “What?!” said the poor lady, more than a little startled.

  “Now, Mrs Hudson!”

  I gripped the stick and stepped into Jekyll’s room. My senses heightened I peered around the room for the two men for it seemed clear that Edward Hyde had somehow gained access to our rooms and had been waiting for Jekyll. I could just discern the sound of breathing. It was measured and calm.

  The sound of an intake of breath gave me the split second I needed to block the blow that came swinging at me. My stick and the cudgel clashed together with a resounding ‘thwack’. My height gave me an advantage for Hyde had aimed his initial blow at my skull. I knew his second would be a low blow and so it was. My eyes were now accustomed to the darkness and I could just make out the diminutive figure of Hyde. He swung a blow at my knee but I avoided it and simultaneously aimed a sharp direct thrust to Hyde’s breastbone. A hissing exhalation told me I had succeeded. We traded blows and counter blows, Hyde’s reactions seemed somewhat hampered on occasions and at one point I heard the sound of fabric tearing leading me to deduce that his clothing was somehow hindering him. Our contest was as much a question of strategy and tactics since I could not match my opponent’s ferocious strength. As his fury grew his attacks became less considered and it increasingly became a contest between brute strength and intellect. Hyde’s growls became increasingly animalistic until I landed blow upon his head which I followed instantly with a sharp jab aimed at his jawbone.

  I heard his cudgel strike the floor. A gargling, rasping sound however told me that I had instead struck him in the throat. Then all was silent. I stepped back and pushed open the door allowing the light from the hallway to flood the room.

  It was not the sudden, brighter light that caused me to blink but disbelief. I had expected to see Henry Jekyll behind Hyde in the room but there was only the one prone body on the floor. The sole body on the carpet was that of Mr Hyde: Clad in Jekyll’s suit! Of Dr Jekyll there was no trace! I searched to be sure.

  Jekyll could only have escaped out the window. Yet a quick check showed the window was securely latched, so clearly he had exited and his friend, whom he had lent clothing to again, I realized, had latched the window behind him. I kept a close eye on the prone Hyde, wary lest the powerful man stir, but I already thought this was beyond him.

  I could hear outside the sound of the policeman arriving with the boy in buttons. Mrs Hudson was tearfully telling them that I had been attacked by Dr Jekyll. He entered and we both looked at Hyde’s still figure with greater scrutiny, now I was no longer fearful of being sprung at alone.

  “This man is dead,” said the policeman.

  “Yes,” I replied. “He attacked me with that cudgel.”

  “Is this that Jekyll bloke?”

  I did not answer immediately but advised the bobby to send for Inspector Newcomen.

  “Tell him this is the man sought for the murder of Sir Edmund Carew.”

  The policeman’s eyes grew wide. “Yes, sir,” said he and rushed out.

  While I awaited the Inspector I asked Mrs Hudson to make us both a cup of coffee.

  I turned the afternoon’s events over in my mind attempting to make sense of an irrational situation. I had been only moments behind Jekyll. Although Mrs Hudson was already accustomed to my strange and diverse clients she had said nothing of admitting so bizarre a figure as Hyde. And what in the world had become of Jekyll?

  In a flight of imagining induced by narcotics one might even conjecture whether Jekyll and Hyde might have been one and the same, but such a preposterous premise flies in the face of every principle of scientific observation and rationality upon which I have built my life. I dismissed the idea as beyond fanciful. It was nothing less than insane. Yet there was some sort of relationship between the two men that was eluding me, and discovering such truths was my very vocation.

  For the first time in my life I found myself utterly perplexed. And if it takes me the rest of that life I will solve the strange case of Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hyde!

  Literary agent’s postscript

  It is a matter of public record that Mr Sherlock Holmes failed to solve to his satisfaction the riddle of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde despite grappling with the problem for many years. He eventually filed it away as “insoluble”.

  The Adventure of the Madman

  Dr John Seward

  Together with an addendum by His Wife

  Transcribed from wax phonograph rolls found among the belongings of the former Mary Holder, ancestress of

  Nancy Holder

  6 December, 1901

  I am quite insane.

  I have deceived all who love me of it, save one.

  My mentor, the good Dr Van Helsing, could not be fooled by that King of the Undead, Count Dracula. He knew the lordly vampire for what he was, and was never dissuaded to do what must be done because others could not believe. But where the Count failed, I have succeeded. Through our ongoing exchange of letters, the good Dutch doctor thinks that all is well with me, but in truth, I am a drowning man, as I was last summer when we reunited to remember what we must not forget: that a vampire tried to destroy us all, and that Quincey Morris, our American friend, died so that we might live.

  Yes, it has been seven years and one month since we destroyed the Count. Those years have been good to Mina and Jonathan Harker, as they have had a child. Lord Godalming (Arthur Holmwood) and I are both counted as happily married, but I thought surely they would see through my polite lie during our reunion, when I explained that my wife could not join us because she was visiting a sick aunt. Of course that was not true.

  You may recall that I reside within the walls of the asylum of which I am director. It is an institution for the insane, those poor, tormented souls whose inner ravings dictate and shape the nature of their outer reality. They see ghosts and monsters where there are none.

  Except…that my madness has progressed to the point where I see the monsters, too.

  It is not that unusual for the unafflicted to live within the walls of a madhouse. Indeed, the Harkers and Dr Van Helsing stayed here on the night Count Dracula murder
ed his poor minion, R. M. Renfield. Dear Mrs Harker was already under the thrall of the accursed vampire, and I must say that my admiration for her has steadily grown through the years. She is a most singular woman, a lady whose fortitude surpasses even that of many men. Had I endured the vampire’s assault as she had, I am sure I would have gone mad much sooner.

  My wife Eliza is a more usual lady, having come into my life innocent of the horrors of the rough wide world. My profession caused her much anxiety, and because of it, she hesitated for quite some time to marry me. She feared that insanity was a disease that one could catch, such as the plague, and that setting up house within my asylum might lead to infection.

  I was in an agony of waiting! I assured her that diseases of the mind do not travel on the wind, but I see now that that was not precisely true. The Count had flown in bat form through the casement to destroy Renfield’s body, mind, and soul. Mrs Harker was horribly used by the Count within these walls, slowly draining her of life and making her his own.

  However, these injuries were of the past, and I had thought them buried forever. But after Eliza and I returned home from our honeymoon (going on six years after we had vanquished the Count), she discovered my phonograph diary quite by accident and listened to all my entries concerning these dark times without consulting me. She was furious with me for withholding this story from her—indeed, for speaking not one word of my past adventure, ever. I told her that I had kept the subject closed because I wished to spare her. But she likened this omission to that of Mr Rochester in her favourite novel, Jane Eyre: he concealed the secret that he was already married…to a madwoman. Rochester imperiled Jane’s very soul, as they came very near to committing bigamy.

  Then Eliza claimed not to believe anything in my diary, declaring that I had been infected with madness, having caught it from my tormented patients as she had first feared should happen to her. That I was insane and the story of Count Dracula was the proof.

  I offered to have the others speak on my behalf. I begged her to attend our approaching reunion and listen to the story and then judge for herself, for then she would know that I was as sane as she.

  Alas, that was entirely the wrong thing to say. For she told me that if she had to choose between marriage to a madman or to a sane man who had truly done the unspeakable things I had described in my diary entries, she would not choose such a man at all. She would leave him. And she did.

  And God help me, now that the summer is gone and the winter snows bar my doors, I agree with her decision. She is better without me. I was sane then, but I have lost my sanity, of that I am certain. The horrible dreams…they are not dreams. They are not dreams.

  I have become infected.

  3 January 1901

  It happened thusly: two months ago, there came to us a man quite destroyed by his fears to the point of near-catatonia. He was a gentleman whom I shall call “M,” brought in by a man claiming to be his brother (although they didn’t look like each other at all. I believe the brother was actually his manservant. As we in this country do not recognize voluntary committal, I believe this “brother” was created solely for the purpose of committing “M” into my care.)

  “M” allowed as how he had been doggedly pursued by a venomous foe, robbing him of home, hearth, and sanity. This fiend was determined to put an end to “M” by any means necessary.

  He wept at our first interview. “I see him everywhere. I turn a corner and he is there. I gaze through a window, and I see his narrow face and piercing eyes. He is a demon! A devil! He will be the death of me for I cannot elude him any longer!”

  I believed him, and I was much dismayed. I am in charge of one hundred inmates and staff. Their care devolves to me. I should not ever allow harm that I was utterly able to prevent to come to them.

  “Then this is a matter for the police,” I said. “I shall summon them at once.”

  “No, no,” he said quickly. “I speak in metaphor, good doctor. In madness.” He seemed to get hold of himself, even managing a small, mortified smile. “For parts of every day I am a rational man. I know that my delusions are only that—delusions. But when the megrims are upon me and I can no longer shore up my defenses against my fears through the application of my reason, I see him in my mirror. I see him in the shiny wax polish upon the floor. He is insubstantial like a ghost, and I tell myself that he simply cannot be there…and yet he is. It is from this horror that I seek relief.”

  Thus I admitted him, and as he is a gentleman, of fine edu­cation and breeding, I set him apart from the other inmates. He is a singularly aristocratic fellow, possessed of a high, domed forehead and intelligent eyes. Within days, he settled into the routine of the asylum quite naturally, save for terrible nightmares that still call me to his bedside at all hours of the night, during which time I administer laudanum. That quiets his nerves, as it is wont to do, and he thanks me profusely and begs me to station an orderly by his bedside, to guard him during the night.

  In the daytime, however, he is in command of himself, and so I permit him some liberties not extended to the other inmates: for example, the freedom to go on long walks in the fresh air, which I deem beneficial to his convalescence. I confess that I am a bit house-proud, as he observes all the niceties and modern conveniences with which I had equipped the asylum. He marvels at our extensive vegetable garden and our fruit trees, and is most astonished by the giant cisterns I have employed for the storage of our water.

  “What indeed is this about?” he asked me today. “Have you not a well from which you can draw water when you require it?”

  I explained to him that I subscribe to the notion that one ought to drink plain water—a good quantity, every day. Having read the medical and scientific journals of the day, I refined my theory one step further—that this water should be boiled, to destroy any lurking impurities and keep the drinker safe from attendant disease. He finds my notion somewhat radical, and asked why I did not simply stick to serving tea and spirits, as most households did.

  “See what a tremendous amount of work you make for yours­elf,” he observed, gesturing to the immense stores of firewood I had laid on beside my cistern. “There is enough wood cut here to warm three asylums!”

  Indeed there is, and soon enough, he has seen proof of that. This morning marked the second month and a week that he has been with us, and though the day grew very cold, “M” stomped about the grounds like a fire-breathing dragon, so white and billowy were his exhalations. It was time to light the fireplaces, and I ensured that we had laid in sufficient stores of wood and of coal to keep us warm for the winter. “M” was interested in our preparations, asking many questions, and I began to form the opinion that he once owned an estate.

  This afternoon, at tea, my head nurse, Miss Mary Holder, privately expressed grave reservations about “M”. She tells me that “M” follows her every move with a keen eye, as if mem­orizing her routine, and that at no time does he appear witless or troubled. His eyes are cold and his manner detached, giving off an air of ruthlessness so palpable that she is afraid of him. Additionally, he requests of her all the newspapers, most especially The Times, and his conversations with her centre quite frequently on the activities of the police.

  Taking together the timbre of his discussions, his actions, and his manner, Miss Holder has deduced that he is not in need of our help at all, and never has been. That he was brought to us so that he could hide from the authorities, and they are closing in. That his nightmarish adversary is more likely a constable, and that in addition, he is only biding his time until he can commit an offense against us before he takes flight once more.

  I did listen to her, as she is my head nurse, but I also note that she is a woman, and therefore given to some timidity when confronted with a forceful personality. Rather above the middle height, slim with dark hair and eyes, Miss Holder came to me shrouded in something of a mystery herself. Her letters and certific
ates were all in order, and yet when I interviewed her, I sensed that she was holding something back. There was a deep sorrow about her, and an anxiety not unlike “M’s.” Her behaviour betrayed a story I had yet to hear. However, I do count myself a good judge of character, and I have found her to be intelligent and capable, and unruffled in the face of madness. I must admit that it is difficult finding stalwart nurses to attend the insane, and for this reason I perhaps did not investigate her history as much than others would have.

  I wonder too, if she unconsciously projects her own secrecy upon the cipher that is “M.” While it is true that she is surrounded by madmen every breathing second of her life save for days-off, church, and holidays, still, we have not had the likes of him before (save, perhaps for poor Renfield). He is clearly of a higher class than she is accustomed to among our sufferers, and I am certain that the habits of civility and good manners frequently cloak the ferocity of his mental imbalance—thus persuading her that he is not unbalanced at all.

  What I cannot tell her, of course, is that I have begun to see what “M” fears so keenly. I catch little sidelong glimpses of a strange man’s long, pale face in the windowpanes; when I glance into mirrors, I think I see him there, too. A tall man, keen and vigorous. A man who wants something from me. Something dear, which he seems to assume I will fight to keep. He is appearing, too, in my dreams! I hardly sleep one night in seven, and yet I stifle myself from crying out for the same succour I bestow on “M.” The saying goes, “Physician, heal thyself.” But I cannot. How he plagues me!

  Who is he, this shade, this figure of doom? He cannot be the Count returned, for I know that the vampire cannot show in a reflection. But I see so much of him! Much distressed, I have no one to speak to of my plight, but seek solace in listening to “M” describe his haunted mind. Yes, I want to say to him. Yes, that is my mind, too! I am not the only one. I am not alone! I share your illness!