Poole, the elderly butler, answered his knock in a trice.
‘We wish to see your master upon a matter of extreme importance,’ snapped Holmes in a tone which brooked no protest.
‘I am sorry, sir, but that is impossible.’ The manservant’s voice was cool. He appeared to recognise us, though it had been well over a year since our only meeting. ‘Dr. Jekyll is indisposed and cannot receive visitors. Perhaps you would care to leave a message?’
‘The time for playing the dutiful domestic is past, Poole. I have reason to believe that Edward Hyde, the Westminster murderer, is concealed beneath this roof. If you do not let us in I shall summon the police and they will be here by nightfall with a warrant to search the premises. Which shall it be?’
For a space the two stared at each other, the butler’s eyes of washed-out blue fixed upon the grey fire of my companion’s. The former wavered and their owner appeared about to give in when they altered their focus suddenly to something beyond Holmes’s shoulder and relief swept his withered features.
‘I believe that these gentlemen are leaving, Bradshaw,’ said he. ‘You may escort them to their cab.’
We turned. Bradshaw was an enormous man whose footman’s livery barely contained the bulging muscles of his arms and chest. From his spotless white collar sprouted a neck and head like those of a bull, with a broad blank face and innocent-looking eyes spread wide beneath sandy blond hair cut in bangs over his forehead. He towered over Holmes by several inches. Responding to the butler’s command, he stepped forward to escort us in what was probably the only way he knew, his arms bowed in the fashion of a wrestler advancing towards his opponent.
Holmes struck his boxer’s stance and let fly with a resounding right cross to the big man’s jaw. Bradshaw’s head turned a fraction of an inch. The detective’s eyes widened ever so slightly at this evidence of his impotence.
‘Let us go, Watson,’ said he, grasping my wrist and ducking beneath the footman’s outstretched left arm.
As we returned to the cab I glanced back towards the top of the steps, where Poole and the hulking Bradshaw stood watching us. It struck me that, for the professed gentility of West End society, the landscape was overrun with sinister servants.
‘Round the corner, cabby,’ Holmes whispered to the driver. We proceeded as directed, observed all the way by the two men at the front door. Once out of sight, Holmes signalled the cabby to halt.
‘When all else fails, go directly to the source,’ said my companion as we alighted before the bleak facade of that part of Jekyll’s home which faced upon the bystreet.
Again the driver was asked to wait, and as we descended the short flight of steps which led from the street to the door, Holmes drew from a pocket of his coat a slim leather case which I recognised. From it he selected an instrument of shining metal which ended in a flattened point.
‘Tell me, Watson,’ said he, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, ‘have you any reservations concerning unlawful activity when it is directed towards a noble end?’
‘I suppose that would depend upon the end,’ said I.
‘Would you consider justice noble enough?’
‘Decidedly.’
‘Then be good enough to stand guard whilst I explore the possibilities of this lock.’
I took up a position at the top of the steps whilst he inserted the instrument into the keyhole of the door’s ancient lock. It was a stubborn mechanism, and more than once as he struggled with it I heard him curse beneath his breath. At length, however, there was a metallic snap, Holmes uttered a small cry of triumph, and the door was pushed open.
A narrow corridor led us into a large theatre, which, illuminated greyly through a dingy skylight, contained laboratory apparatus and a profusion of opened packing crates heaped with straw upon the flagstones. To our right, a short flight of steps communicated with a red baize door, whilst to our left stood a row of narrow plank doors which appeared to conceal closets. Holmes chose our most promising course and together we climbed the stairs to the red door. Here he placed both of his hands upon the plain knob and turned it carefully, leaning into as he did so. The door moved a fraction of an inch and stopped.
‘Bolted.’ He hesitated, then rapped sharply upon the door.
‘Go away, Poole!’ snarled a voice from within. ‘I left specific instructions that I was not to be disturbed.’
‘This is Sherlock Holmes.’ My companion spoke sternly. ‘An audience with me now may spare you a visit with the police later.’
There was a long silence. Finally the doctor’s heavy tread was heard approaching and the bolt was shot back. The door opened to reveal Henry Jekyll in a white smock.
He had changed little in the fifteen months which had elapsed since our last and only meeting, but he had changed. Creases underscored his crisp blue eyes where before there had only been smoothest skin. The eyes themselves were restless in their socket, as though he expected danger from some quarter but was not sure when it would come or what form it would take when it did. Lines of concern had etched their way from his nostrils to the corners of his wide mouth. The silver at his temples had spread to encompass his widow’s-peak, which was itself perceptibly thinner. The changes themselves might not have been noticeable even to his closest friends, but to the trained medical eye everything about him — his appearance, his nervous mannerisms, the agitated way in which he stood — suggested an air of general dissipation. That he had been operating under great strain for some time was self-evident.
In his right hand he held a pair of those metal tongs which I had seen Holmes use many times to lift a test tube filled with steaming liquid from atop his Bunsen burner, and these he waved angrily as he addressed us.
‘What is the meaning of this intrusion?’ he demanded. ‘Explain yourself or, by thunder, I shall be the one who summons the police!’
For all his rage it was evident that he was striving valiantly to hold himself in check. Just why, I did not know. But his entire being shook with the effort.
Holmes presented a calm exterior. ‘I rather doubt that you will choose that route, Dr. Jekyll. A cobra does not invite a troupe of mongooses into its den.’
‘And just what is that supposed to mean?’
‘Oh, very well, if you insist upon carrying through with this charade. I am speaking of Edward Hyde, the accused murdered of Sir Danvers Carew, and the fact that you are harbouring him in your home.’
It may be that the tension of the moment, combined with my own exhaustion after the long journey from Scotland, caused my imagination to soar to ridiculous heights, but it seemed to me that an expression of immense relief swept across the doctor’s open features after Holmes had levelled his charge. Whatever it meant, however, it was gone in the next instant, replaced by indignation.
‘That is a serious accusation,’ said he warningly. ‘Were you to repeat it in front of witnesses I should have you up on charges by tomorrow morning.’
‘Spare me your rhetoric,’ Holmes countered. ‘Will you submit to a search of the premises?’
‘I most emphatically will not!’
‘It is your house, and that is your right. But that will not be sufficient to stop the police when they arrive with a warrant.’
Jekyll’s anger altered visibly to consternation. His dynamic eyes took on an introspective look; I could almost see the workings of his magnificent brain. Presently he drew back and flung the door wide.
‘I am a busy man,’ said he. ‘I cannot afford to leave my work whilst a battalion of ill-mannered oafs in uniform snoop about the place, smearing my slides and knocking over my equipment. Conduct your search and be done with it.’
It was a homely little room, an ordinary study but for the presence of numerous scientific paraphernalia. These included a number of glazed presses filled with retorts and test tubes, some of which contained chemicals of varying hues and density, and a powerful microscope beneath which a slide bearing a quantity of white powder was clamped. In the centr
e of the chamber stood a deal table upon which a glass vessel filled over atop the blue flame of a Bunsen burner. Well-thumbed volumes bound in leather and bearing titles of a chemical nature crowded a pair of tall bookcases along the left wall and formed precarious stacks upon the tables. Some of these were propped open for easy reference. A cheval-glass, curiously out of place in these surroudings, stood in a corner, its polished face turned inexplicably towards the ceiling. A fire crackled in the grate at the far end of the room before which was placed a shabby but comfortable-looking armchair. Upon one arm was balanced a dish containing the remnants of a meal. Three barred windows overlooked a closed court, upon the opposite side of which loomed Jekyll’s fine old residence.
Holmes circled the room briskly and returned to our host. ‘Thank you, Doctor. I think that we have seen enough.’ He stared suddenly at the scientist. ‘Dr. Jekyll, are you all right?’
All the blood had drained from the older man’s face, leaving it nearly as pale as the smock he was wearing.
‘Mother of God!’ he cried in a choked voice. ‘It is too soon! Too soon after the last time!’
Holmes repeated his query, more urgently.
Jekyll snapped, ‘I am quite well. Please leave.’ It was a demand as well as a plea. He was shaking visibly.
‘Watson is a physician. Perhaps —’
‘I am well, I said!’ He was shouting now. He seized us each by the shoulder and propelled us with a madman’s strength towards the open doorway. ‘Get out!’ He pushed us outside and slammed the door. The report of the bolt sliding home followed an instant later.
For a moment we stood there, neither of us knowing what action to take, whilst from inside came the sounds of violent convulsions punctuated by breaking glass. Then silence. Holmes rapped tentatively upon the door.
‘Dr. Jekyll?’
‘Who is it?’ The answering voice was harsh, little more than a grating whisper. Holmes appeared taken aback by it.
‘It is I, Sherlock Holmes. Are you well?’
‘I am all right. Go away!’
‘You are certain?’
‘Begone, I said!’ The roar shook the door panels. Reluctantly we obeyed.
‘What do you suppose that was all about?’ I asked my companion back in the cab.
‘I do not know.’ He appeared deep in thought.
‘Did you really believe that he was concealing Hyde?’
‘Not for one minute. I wished merely to get a look at Jekyll’s laboratory and confirm my suspicions. I succeeded in doing both.’
‘And?’
‘No doubt you wondered what prompted my return to Professor Armbruster’s study at the University of Edinburgh,’ said he.
I pretended tolerance of this seeming irrelevance by nodding. ‘I supposed that you would tell me when you thought it right.’
‘Your patience is commendable. I have been convinced for some time that the roots of Jekyll’s recent behavior go back to his career at the University. When the blackmail theory evaporated, I decided to concentrate upon his course of study. One can learn much about a man by his interests. With this in mind I asked the professor for Jekyll’s reading list during his student days. As I said, the old scholar has a remarkably lucid memory in some areas; he provided me, in short order, with a complete rundown of those titles which occupied most of the young man’s time. Many of the works are out of print, and I had the devil of a time tracking them all down. But track them down I did, and here you see the results.’ He patted the parcels which lay beside him upon the seat.
‘I fail to see what that has to do with this latest confrontation,’ said I.
‘Many of the works deal with chemistry and science, though I have Armbruster’s testimony that none of them was required for the classes which Jekyll attended. A glimpse of the great man’s laboratory — a chemical storehouse such as I dream of someday owning myself — confirmed my belief that he is still engaging in chemical research. I feel certain now that I am on the right track.’
‘On the track of what?’
‘If I knew that, Watson, I could save myself many weeks of work.’ He looked at me then, and his eyes were as bright as twin suns. ‘I intend to bury myself in the perusal of those volumes which sent Henry Jekyll upon his current path of destruction. In so doing, I shall follow the trail laid down by a brilliant mind exactly as I would follow that left by a culprit’s boots. It is a task well-nigh impossible, for it pre-supposes that I can arrive within these next few weeks at the same conclusion which took Jekyll thirty years to reach. But there is no alternative. Everywhere else lies impasse.’
‘And in the meantime?’
‘In the meantime a killer will be free to roam the streets. We can but pray that his urge to destroy will remain in check until we have enough to ensure that he will roam them no more.’
Having delivered this statement, he tore the wrapping from one of the parcels — a weighty volume entitled Wilton’s Elements of Chemistry — and began reading from page one whilst the hansom in which we were riding bucked and rumbled over the cobblestones on the way to Baker Street.
Seventeen
THE MAN IN THE LABORATORY
As is typical for London, the spring of 1885 was heralded by days of cold and bluster which were every bit as severe as anything which the long winter had offered. Icy gales howled down deserted streets, whimpered round chimneys and beneath cornices, cast great handfuls of snow and freezing rain rattling against windowpanes thick with frost. Wisps of greasy brown fog clung to the gas lamps as if holding on lest they be torn asunder by the relentless wind. The streets themselves glistened beneath a sheen of ice, and what little traffic there was made less than snails’ progress upon the slick surface. Like almost everyone else in the besieged city, Holmes and I were content to remain prisoners in our own home, engaged in sedentary pursuits and drawing comfort from our own little hearth whilst the elements raged without. The weather was of little consequence, however, as for two months my fellow-lodger had scarcely stirred from his armchair before the fire save to dine and replenish his supply of shag, so engrossed was he in the study of that ponderous stack of reading material which he had brought with him from Edinburgh. He read rapidly, finishing an average of a volume a day, then casting it aside to reach for another from atop the pile. In no time at all the floor round his feet became a litter of discarded books, some of which he returned to on occasion in order to check some point which he either had forgotten or wished to confirm with what he had just read. By the beginning of March our sitting-room had begun to resemble Professor Armbruster’s cluttered study.
The extent of his immersion may be measured by the fact that he barely commented when, less than a fortnight after our return from Scotland, Dr. Hastie Lanyon’s obituary appeared in all of the newspapers. Death was attributed to ‘overwork and a weakened constitution.’ His own prediction regarding his life expectancy had come true almost to the day. For Holmes, however, he had become a non-entity the moment he ceased to play a crucial role in the problem upon which we were engaged.
Thus undistracted, I succeeded in putting together a satisfactory first draft of those events which had led to the solution of the Lauriston Gardens mystery and began the laborious process of translating it into acceptable English. I expended several bottles of ink and tossed away something in excess of a ream of foolscap during this stage of the project, much to the chagrin of Mrs. Hudson, whose task it was to empty our trash baskets each morning and afternoon. I confess that Holmes and I were too busy to take much notice of her complaints.
There were times, however, as upon the Ides of March, when even such a sedentary soul as I grew alarmed at my friend’s immobility and demanded that he step out and take the air, if only for an hour. Rather than suffer further remonstration, on this particular morning Holmes climbed out from beneath his books and girded himself to face the weather, muttering something about visiting his favourite chemists’ shops as he went out the door. I did not see him again for the be
tter part of the day, and when as the supper hour was approaching he re-appeared bearing his new acquisitions wrapped in bundles beneath his arm, he was in such visibly good spirits that I congratulated myself upon the wisdom of my advice, until he told me the reason for his cheer.
‘You are aware, Watson, of my observations upon the foolhardy human habit of attempting to reason without sufficient data,’ he said as he divested himself of headgear and wrap. ‘I am therefore placing myself in an embarrassing position by calling upon you to guess whom I encountered today at Maw & Sons.’
‘I cannot think,’ said I.
‘Our friend Poole.’
‘Jekyll’s butler! Whatever was he after in a chemist’s?’
‘Something for his master, without doubt. He was unsuccessful, as Maw informed him in no uncertain terms that Jekyll himself had taken the last of it from his shelf some months ago. I overheard this reply as I was coming in. Poole seemed greatly troubled on his way out and would have walked right on past me had I not called his name. He would not tell me what he was about. Orders from his master, I warrant, though I got the distinct impression that he knew little more about the business than I. I attempted to question Maw after he left, but that worthy gentleman had overheard us and did not deem it advisable to explain the nature of the order. That is of little consequence, however.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Ah, you must not ask me that just yet.’ He unwrapped his parcels — they contained the usual miscellany of bottles, phials, and packets of substances beyond my ken — and put them away amongst shelves above his chemical table. ‘Be satisfied to know that this latest development has a made-to-order place in the theory that I am formulating. All that remains is for me to satisfy myself that such things are possible.’ And with that he returned to his studies.
We were not without visitors during this period. I find it recorded in my notebook that we were blessed no fewer than seven times with the presence of Inspector Newcomen of Scotland Yard, and that upon each occasion he had departed in an even blacker humour than that in which he had arrived. The Inspector had gotten it into his head that Holmes was doing nothing to earn whatever fee he was charging the British Empire for his services in the Hyde case (he had, in fact, offered them free of charge), and finding the unofficial detective curled up in an armchair with a book across his knees each time he came to call did little to allay his suspicions. Since a scene was inevitable, I learnt to dread his visits much as an impoverished tenant fears the approaching footsteps of his landlord.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: Dr Jekyll & Mr Holmes Page 16
