“What I have been doing? Do you mean this?” He pointed his stick at the youth. “What you have been doing as well, no? Buggering the blond boy? Fucking his lily-white arse?”
“We followed you to Whitechapel, Hallett. We saw what you did on Berner Street.” Symonds pointed to Stevenson, who felt his blood chill as the man’s gaze turned on him. If a serpent could have arms and legs, he thought, and wear a top hat, this would be he.
“You did, did you?” said the man, slipping into a matter-of-fact voice that was somehow more appalling than his growl. “Saw me wiv me knife an’ all.” He turned to broad Cockney. “Doin’, who was it? Eddowes? Stride? It is sooo hard to remember.” He turned back to Stevenson and, quite unbelievably, winked.
“You have a choice, Hallett,” said Symonds, again bracing himself. “I do? Oh, good. Do tell.” “You can stop what you’ve been doing. Swear on your honor to stop what you’ve been doing—”
“Wait, wait, wait,” interrupted the man, fluttering his fingers like a pantomime fool. “Honor? You speak to me of honor?”
“I do,” replied Symonds. “Do you have any?” Stevenson could hear anger mounting in his friend’s voice. It didn’t bode well.
“Well,” replied Hallett, spreading his feet to the width of his shoulders and leaning his hands on his stick in front of him. “We shall see. Perhaps I do. And what’s my other choice, then?”
“Failing your stopping, you can resign yourself to our telling the Times everything about you.”
“They’d never print it,” sneered Hallett. “I know certain thingsssss.” He drew the word out like a whispering asp. “And they knows I knows ’em.” He gazed smugly at Stevenson. “Besides,” he added after a pause, “it’s only whores I’ve been seeing to. Who cares in the least about whores?” He glanced hatefully at Matthew. The youth’s lip trembled as he looked on.
“In truth,” continued Symonds, “I was rather thinking of telling the Times about Cleveland Street. About you and me and Matthew and everyone else at Cleveland Street.”
“You’d ruin yourself for this?” scowled the man, peering at Symonds in disbelief. “For a handful of common sluts?”
“I would.” “No,” said the man, with a violent shake of his head. “They won’t publish. They wouldn’t dare.”
“Then I shall go to other papers,” cried Symonds. “Less hide-bound papers. And to the Church. And to Parliament. And I shall shout the news in the street myself until your family hangs its head in utter shame!”
With the rising wail of a beast, the man leapt at Symonds, ramming his hand up under his throat and dashing him back against the wall. Laughton rushed forward, grabbing the attacker by the right arm. “Batchelor!” he screamed. “Batchelor!”
As Laughton’s companion approached, Hallett tossed the smaller man back and, whirling with his cane, caught him just above the eye. There was a distinct crunch and the little fellow collapsed to the floor, blood gushing from his forehead. Batchelor took one step back, then two, and then he grasped the doorknob and rushed from the room.
Symonds crouched unsteadily against the wall, his hands raised to his throat, his eyes bulging from their sockets.
Hallett turned back towards him. “Now, you art-fancying little cunt. Shall we end this little farce?” He grabbed Symonds’s throat once again and, dropping his stick, concentrated all of his prodigious might on the other’s neck.
Stevenson looked on, inexplicably petrified. Symonds’s eyes were rolling back into his head. “Stop that!” he called out at last, shocking himself with his imperious tone. “Stop that, you fucking scunner!”
Hallett looked back over his shoulder. Sizing the writer up with an infuriating coolness, he laughed obscenely and turned again to Symonds.
It was enough. Stevenson ran the last steps to the wall and, raising his stick in both hands, he brought it down with all his might. He swung so hard that he felt his boots lift off the floor as the blow whipped down towards the neat part in the fellow’s hair. The stick might well have broken, but it held fast. The crack that pulsed up through the shaft was in Hallett’s head, and Stevenson was powerfully inclined to feel it again. A bitterness flooded his mouth, like a fiery draught of the strongest whisky he could imagine. Fire and spirit. Spirit and fire. He felt his tongue broach the slippery wall of his teeth. Hallett almost managed to turn again after the first blow, almost managed to see Stevenson’s face contort as he struck, but he did not quite get it done before the heavy cane fell again.
The second blow was like a bellows to the first, and the flame inside Stevenson roared larger. There at its incandescent core, writhing in the scalding vapor, he fancied a tiny simulacrum of himself, half boy, half ancient man, crouched and then rising, straining, stretching out arms and legs and neck until his smoldering skin split at the extremities and a far larger, brighter, more shimmering version of himself burst forth. He scarcely had the strength or will for another blow—but there. And there again. And then it was Matthew’s voice calling out behind him.
“Mr. Stevenson, sir! You’ve done for him. Sir! You can stop now.”
Symonds was still on his feet when Stevenson thought to look back at him. His breath came in harsh pulls, but it was coming.
“John,” cried Stevenson, dropping his stick on the floor. “My God! Here. Sit! Matthew. Find some water.”
Matthew also found Batchelor, out in the foggy street, cowering against a low shed opposite the house. When they were back in the room, Stevenson handed the poor man a five-pound note and told him to hurry his companion in the hansom below down to the South Hampstead Police Station, there to secure medical attention. The little fellow was bleeding profusely, but he answered to his name and managed, with some assistance, to stumble down the stairs and into the cab.
Stevenson sent Matthew for the carriage waiting around the corner at the top of the street. Together with Symonds, he dragged Hallett’s limp body out of the flat and down the stairs, the feet thudding down every riser. A boot snagged on one step and was pulled straight off, but the two left it lying there as they manhandled the massive body through the door and gate and onto the damp pavement. While they waited for the cab, Stevenson held his fingers against the man’s neck. The pulse was strong enough and regular, but his breathing was extremely shallow. Once the hansom clattered up, they managed with Matthew’s help to heave the unconscious man up onto the floor and prop him against the seat, with his knees jammed up close to his shoulders. They would have to ride with the half-doors open; but with a lap robe thrown over Hallett’s head, it was unlikely anyone would notice the cab’s unusual fare. Matthew assured them he could find his way safely home, and, with a curiously shy farewell, the young man made his way towards West End Lane.
They arrived at Portman Square just short of midnight. A lamp still burned outside the door of Number 43, and the ground floor windows were illuminated, so it was well that they stopped several houses short of their destination so as not to be noticed in arriving. With the driver’s assistance, they pulled Hallett from the cab and dragged him along the pavement to the foot of the steps that rose to his front door. As the driver turned the hansom as quietly as he could manage, they leaned Hallett against the rail and placed his hat and stick in his lap, folding his gloved hands over top of them.
While Symonds pinned a note to his cloak, Stevenson once again checked the man’s pulse. No change, despite the blood he was obviously losing. He tiptoed up to the door, half expecting it to fly open and flood the scene with light. The house remained perfectly still. Turning to be sure that Symonds was on his way back to the carriage, he reached up for the unusual knocker. It was the face of Medusa, hinged on a heavy plate of coiling serpents. Gripping it firmly, he brought it down three times, hard, despite the alarming din, then turned and raced for the cab.
Stevenson struggled hard to catch his breath as they trotted towards St. James. If he had ever felt this wrought, the memory escaped him entirely. He asked repeatedly if Symonds needed m
edical attention, only to be assured by his friend that he would be just fine. Stevenson resolved, still, to see him all the way to his room at the Athenaeum.
As they turned on Piccadilly, he thought of the note he and Symonds had quickly penned to leave for Hallett’s discoverers. We are returning your master, it read. He received no more than he deserved. It might be best to summon a doctor. Tell anyone who asks that Jack has met with Justice.
“God in Heaven, Louis! Have you killed him?”
Fanny sat up ramrod-straight in her bed at the Grosvenor, staring aghast at her husband. Twice she had asked him to sit while he rendered his grim account of the evening. Stevenson protested that he was still far too agitated. He had managed to stop pacing the thick carpet, but he continued to sway on his feet as though the opulent suite were a square-rigger pounding through an antipodean gale.
“I doubt it. His pulse was strong enough when we left him. If his people fetched a doctor, I expect he can be saved.”
“Not that he should be, the beast.”
“No. No. Where are the cigarettes?” “In the sitting room.”
Stevenson disappeared for a moment, then returned to resume his pacing, a cigarette pinched between his thumb and first two fingers.
“I can’t tell you how restless I feel,” he said. He blew a great jet of smoke up towards the electric light fixture. “Wild.” The memory of the pummeling possessed him, both the horror of it and, more strongly, the confounding elation he had felt. Somehow, it felt like an infidelity.
“Won’t you please sit down?” Fanny abjured him. “Take off your overcoat at least.”
He stopped his shuffling and looked down. Nodding dumbly, he slipped out of the heavy garment and tossed it on a chair.
“And Symonds?” “Symonds will be fine. He’s had a dreadful scare. He assured me, though, he’s fine.”
“And now?” Fanny adjusted herself against the pillows. “Will Hallett’s people go to the police?”
“I don’t know. If they do, I honestly don’t know what they could pass along. I am quite certain we weren’t seen.”
“You’re positive?” “How could I be? But they wouldn’t be in the habit of waiting up for him, would they? Given the hours he keeps.” He walked over to the bedside table, tapped off his ashes, and resumed his perambulations. “Or kept.”
“God, Louis!” Fanny sighed. “Do you think they have any notion of what he’s been up to? This ‘gentleman’ they work for?”
“Hard to say. But if they didn’t before, they may well now.” “Why? How so?” “Symonds and I left a note. To let it be known this wasn’t a random thrashing. We said that Jack had come to justice. Something along that line. Any of them who knew, as his coachman must to some degree have known, are likely just to say the jig is up. Can you imagine their running off to Scotland Yard? Asking Inspector Swanson to avenge their kind employer, Jack the Ripper? Anyone smarter than a bedpost will simply let it out that their master has taken deathly ill.”
“And if he’d somehow managed to keep it all a secret?” “Our mentioning Jack might set them to thinking. And, besides, I really can’t imagine they have any notion at all of who did for the bastard.”
“So you say.” Fanny threw off her covers and slid out of bed to don her robe. “What if Hallett recovers?”
“Which, I suppose, he may. I’m afraid I don’t have much experience cracking heads.”
“Thank the Lord for that. But couldn’t he go to Scotland Yard?” Fanny adjusted her robe and slipped back into bed. “And charge you with assault? You no longer have any evidence in hand against him.”
“I wouldn’t if I were he.” “Because?”
Stevenson stopped again and gazed at her intently. “The police may have overlooked his depredations until now. Owing to certain political pressures. I seriously doubt, though, that they would actually take his side in an ensuing legal case.” Fanny appeared to agree. “What’s more, he’s now substantially added to his own ledger. Criminal assault against a gentleman? There are five of us who could attest to that. Provided Laughton recovers.”
“And he should?”
Stevenson nodded. “All right,” continued Fanny as she reached back to adjust her pillows. “That’s reassuring.” She sat there for a moment, looking about the room. “Of course, Hallett could still come after us, no? Directly. If he recovers.” The anxiety in her voice was patent.
“I have thought of that. But I don’t see how he could possibly know who I am. Moreover, we’ll soon be in America. I worry far more about Symonds.”
“Honestly,” agreed Fanny. “But I suppose Hallett could find out from the police that you went to them with John.”
Stevenson shook his head. “I don’t think so. Again, though, their laying off the wretch to this point is a far cry from collaborating with him going forward. To assist a murderer in his revenge?” He shook his head once more. “I can’t imagine Abberline or Swanson revealing my name.”
“Let’s hope you’re right.”
Stevenson stubbed out his cigarette and looked about vacantly, as though he might fetch another.
“Won’t you please sit down? You’re making me impossibly nervous. As if I weren’t nervous enough already.” Fanny slid to the side and patted the mattress next to her. “Here. Sit!”
Stevenson sighed and sat down by her pillows. He turned and leaned back against the headboard, swinging his feet up onto the counterpane. “Damn it! My boots.” He grimaced at a dark smear of mud on the cream-colored fabric.
“It will wash out,” said Fanny, patting his arm.
Stevenson chuckled. “What?” “‘Out, damned spot!’” He smiled at her. “I’m just another murderous Scotsman now. Or the next best thing.”
“And I suppose you think your wicked wife put you up to it?” “No,” he grinned. “You were just a co-conspirator.” “I can live with that.” She slid closer. Grasping his arm in both her hands, she laid her head on his shoulder. “Are you feeling more calm?”
“No. This is likely the most exciting night I shall ever spend. Aside, of course, from my first night with you.” He smiled at her again, a trifle distantly. “And, for all intents and purposes, it is a night that can never have happened.”
Fanny looked at him with her eyebrows raised. “We’ve entrapped a man. And then I have beaten him nearly to death.”
“There is that!”
For a moment they sat in silence.
“My boots.”
“What about them?”
“I really must take them off.”
Fanny stared at him in amusement. “The damage is already done.” “Truly I must.” He swung his legs to the floor and untied his shoes, placing them side-by-side next to the bedside table. He swung his stockinged feet back onto the soiled counterpane. “Do you think I shall ever have a biographer?” he asked after a long minute.
“Now there’s a change of topic.” “Not really.”
Fanny snorted dryly. “Colvin’s offered to take care of your immortality. Hasn’t he?”
“Colvin is a wee bit older than I.” “True.” “Healthier, though. Perhaps he’ll outlast me.”
Fanny squeezed his arm again, more sharply. “I don’t want to hear that, Louis. Especially not on a night like this.”
“A night like this.” He turned towards her and kissed the top of her head. “It is truly ironic, Fanny. As I’ve said to Symonds, I’ve amused myself for weeks now thinking this whole affair was very much like something I was conjuring up in a book. With myself as the hero. And you, of course, as the heroine.” He leaned over and kissed her again. “And, once more, it’s a tale that can never be told.”
“Well, I don’t know.” “What do you mean?” “Set it in New York City,” suggested Fanny. “Call it ‘The Vigilantes.’”
22
Here then, as I lay down the pen and proceed to seal up my confession, I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end.
—HENRY JEKYLL
&
nbsp; BOURNEMOUTH, NOVEMBER, 1888
On the 20th of the month, a letter arrived at Skerryvore from Symonds. It read:
My dear Stevenson,
I expect you have been following in the Times, even back in Bournemouth, but since my last, Charles Warren has resigned as Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police after being informed by the Home Secretary that he could make no public statements without Home Office approval. I frankly do not know exactly what this means or where it might lead. It is apparent to me, however, that there is considerable alarm at the highest levels over the Whitechapel affair—more particularly, over the way the relevant hypotheses and facts are released to the collective nation. I imagine you and I are among the least surprised in all of Creation to learn this.
It also happens that Thomas Bond, the police surgeon who is head of the CID, has further detailed the similarities between the murders of Nichols, Chapman, Stride, Eddowes, and Kelly, and has concluded that all five were, as he says, “no doubt committed by the same hand.” Again, how distressing and how satisfying it is, all at once, to be so much in the know.
Word has finally been released at my club that our man has, “tragically,” suffered a “massive stroke” and is now unable either to walk or to speak. The prognosis, we are told, is not sanguine, and we have been invited to include the poor chap and his extended family in our thoughts and prayers!!! You can imagine how I felt upon receiving the word in an official notice. I of course have no way of knowing if his abilities to communicate and perambulate are, indeed, so severely affected. I am hardly planning a visit to his residence in order to verify.
I hope and trust, dear Louis, that you are at peace with our actions. I myself most certainly am. We must not, as you said, be mere bystanders in life, even when our prospects for influencing the course of things may seem slight. I worry, of course, in those dark hours before dawn that our fellow will recover; and that he will find some way of exacting some terrible kind of vengeance against his assailants. But, in the bright light of day, I truly believe, as strongly as I hope, that this demonic scourge has been brought to an end. There has been no further depredation in Whitechapel and Spitalfields, and until that heartening lack of news is supplanted by something more dire, I choose to think that we are well and finally rid of our Mr. H.! I have taken the precaution, however, of engaging my dear Matthew as a valet and amanuensis, feeling that he will inevitably be safer with me in Davos and Venice than here in London. How Janet will treat this news, I fear I cannot predict, but do this I must.
Seeking Hyde Page 35
