Mr. Utterson was not a devoutly religious man, but he prayed that his fears for her were unfounded. If only he had some assurance upon the matter!
In its absence he reached once again for the decanter, but at finger's touch, withdrew his hand. Sorrow was held to drown in drink, but fear could only be inflamed by excessive indulgence. And this was no time to be afraid. The flames cast shadows, and shadows marched across the walls to move silently throughout the house, merging with the murk of the empty, lifeless rooms beyond.
Lifeless. Like Poole. Marching shadows were a matter of foolish fancy, but Poole's death had been a dreadful reality, all the more frightening because it remained unexplained.
Certainly Inspector Newcomen's suspicions seemed both farfetched and unfounded, motivated more by prejudice than pragmatism. Utterson could not conceive of Hester Jekyll committing such a crime in such a manner. Poole had been battered to death, very much the way Sir Danvers Carew had met his fate at the hands of Edward Hyde.
What Newcomen had heard from Poole's widow was unnerving; her description of a fleeing figure evoked memories of Hyde. Or was the fleeing figure merely a figment of her imagination, like his own marching shadows?
Again Utterson's eyes followed the flicker of the flames, as though seeking comfort in their dance and dazzle. At least they were alive while all else around them—shadows, smoke, and ashes—was dead.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Edward Hyde was dead too, dead and buried. Utterson knew that for a fact, and yet the knowledge offered cold comfort. It would appear that one could not rely on "facts" anymore, not after his own experience with Harry Jekyll. What happened to him was contrary to all scientific "facts," but there was no doubting the evidence of his own eyes.
Utterson started at the sudden sound, then caught himself in the realization that the church bells were marking the passage of another hour. It did not seem to him that he had been idling for so long a time. But then time appeared to have lost length of late; hours, days, weeks, and months merged into years. Clocks and chimes had little meaning now. To a man of his age, time was best measured by a mirror.
There had been a cheval glass in Jekyll's cabinet, and now, over the hiss and crackle from the fireplace here in the library, came the echo of Poole's voice. "This glass has seen some strange things, sir." He had spoken in a whisper but Utterson would never forget those words, any more than he could forget the image of the dwarfed body resting face-downward on the carpet below. Resting was hardly the way of it, though. There were those final convulsive shudders, very similar to the one Utterson was experiencing now as he recalled how the figure had been turned on its back to reveal the countenance of Edward Hyde.
Now, over the smell of burning logs, Utterson fancied he could detect the scent of crushed almonds; the odor of poison from the phial that Hyde held crushed in his hand as he expired.
Hyde's suicide was a fact beyond dispute, as was the simultaneous self-destruction of Dr. Henry Jekyll. And there was no doubt regarding the interchange of identities, due to the results of medical experimentation. But if facts proved Jekyll compounded chemicals that changed the body, perhaps he had done more. Jekyll cheated life. Could he also cheat death? Could he rise from the grave again as Mr. Hyde?
"Preposterous." The solicitor murmured the word aloud.
Even if so fantastic a possibility existed, poor Harry would never lend himself to such sacrilege.
Yet Henry Jekyll might. Not his longtime client and friend whom he thought of as Harry, but the man he had never known; the dabbler in the secret and the forbidden. Suppose the fantastic became fact?
If so, Utterson knew what would happen. Should Hyde somehow regain life, or a semblance of life, then inevitably he'd return to the Jekyll house—and find Hester there.
Should any harm befall her, the solicitor's fears, preposterous or no, would be confirmed. Yes, Hyde must find himself drawn to the house; he would move toward it as surely as shadows marched across the walls.
“Preposterous." Again his lips formed the word but closed before allowing its passage, as thought gave way to sudden supposition. If, through any chance and by any means, Hester succumbed to a final fate, then Utterson would remain on record as sole heir to the Jekyll estate. Given the consideration of Hyde's presence, he could still cope with the situation; quickly liquidate a substantial portion of the legacy and flee. Only Inspector Newcomen might suspect his plundering, and once the solicitor placed foot on the soil of the Continent, pursuit would be a fruitless gesture.
So thinking, his mouth moved in a mirthless and soundless chuckle. Who was he to arrogate unto himself the right of passing judgment on poor Harry? In his own thought tonight elements of good and evil had commingled, without the agency of any more chemicals than could be found in two ounces of Bombay gin. How could he presume to probe the soul of another man without first fathoming the depths of his own? He too was both a Jekyll and a Hyde.
Neither aspect of himself occasioned fear. Physically he was confident of the ability to control his actions. But he could not command thought, and knowing this, he was afraid. It was unwise of him to sit alone in this house by night—alone with his thoughts.
But not for long.
Once more Utterson gave a start, prompted by another sudden sound. But this time it was not the clang of bells but a summons sounding from the hall and entryway beyond.
Utterson rose, stiff-kneed after his long attendance before the fire. As he moved toward the door of the library, his shadow joined the others in their silent parade.
Once he reached the hall beyond, the knocking sounded again. The front door was being tapped upon rather than pounded; but to Utterson, unaccustomed as he was to any disturbance at this hour, the noise seemed loud enough to wake the dead. But not those scullery sluggards asleep in their beds backstairs. Now, in Pope's absence, he'd have to do the honors himself. Most irregular. High time to have it out with the servant concerning his nightly meanderings; either that or add a footman to the staff.
A footman would have turned up the gaslight, or at least carried a candle, but Utterson groped his way along the hall aided only by the faint glow issuing from the library entrance behind him.
The tempo of the rapping increased its urgency, ceasing as the solicitor unlocked the door, only to be replaced by the first chime of the church bell.
He opened the front door. There was a shadow-shape on the stoop. Now the shape became a figure as it moved forward into the dim light. The church bell boomed as Utterson stared, incredulous.
"You—?" he gasped.
But the word was lost in the clang of the bell and the crack of the blow that crushed his skull.
Chapter 14
A shock. A truly dreadful shock.
Hester put the newspaper down beside the service of a meal she would never finish.
Bertha had brought the paper as Hester seated herself at the table for breakfast. Unaccustomed as she was to such niceties and the convenience of a personal attendant, Hester did her best to appear at ease. Scanning the newspaper was part of the pretense. Actually she had never before enjoyed a late breakfast in all her life, and enjoyment ended before it began, once she read the story.
The item itself was brief, signifying a hasty last-minute insertion, presumably just before the paper went to press, but the shock that followed her reading was prolonged. Now she sat stunned, striving for comprehension.
Utterson dead? The body lying on his own doorstep last night discovered by—Inspector Newcomen?
Hester shook her head, both in refusal of what she had read and reluctance to peruse it again. Nonetheless she steeled herself to lift the paper and examine the item once more.
Utterson . . . Gaunt Street residence . . . The solicitor's person seemingly battered by a blunt instrument . . . discovered shortly after the commission of the deed by Inspector Newcomen of Scotland Yard, who also apprehended a suspect . . . name being withheld pending further investigation . . .
Suspec
t. She had been too distraught to note this detail at first reading. But it wasn't a detail, not if Inspector Newcomen had the possible murderer in custody. How did the inspector chance to be in the vicinity at the time? And why would anyone wish to do away with Mr. Utterson?
"Begging your pardon, miss—is something wrong?"
Hester glanced up, startled by the sound of her maid's voice. Bertha Tompkins's concern was evident in her glance as well as her voice, and Hester attempted the semblance of a smile.
"It's nothing," she said. "I'm quite all right."
"If breakfast's not to your liking, I'd best tell Mrs. Dorset what you'd prefer—"
"That won't be necessary." Hester shook her head. She was about to say more but the sound of door chimes claimed her attention.
"Excuse me, miss." Bertha wheeled and made her exit, leaving Hester to reflect upon the necessity of finding an immediate replacement for her footman, who had departed despite her request that he remain for a month. It had not occurred to her that Bradshaw's duties would have to be assumed by other members of the staff, thus disrupting the order of the household. But then there was so much she was being forced to learn, forced to accept. And now, the shock of this morning's news—
At the sound of footsteps in the hall, she turned to Bertha as the maid halted in the doorway. "There's someone wishes to see you, miss. A Mr. Prothore. Shall I show him in?"
"No need." Albert Prothore's voice sounded from the hall as he brushed past Bertha. The action itself was something Hester would not have expected from such a proper gentleman, nor was she prepared for the sight of his haggard features and agitated demeanor.
"Forgive this intrusion." His words came quickly. "I must speak to you at once. Utterson—"
"I know." Hester nodded, then gestured toward the table. "There is an account in the newspaper." She paused, frowning. "Who could have done such a horrible thing—battering that poor man to death? Who is this suspect?"
"I am," Prothore said. "But I didn't kill him."
This was a morning for shocks. Hester heard a strange voice murmuring in a monotone. "Please be seated."
It took a moment for her to realize that the voice was her own. As Albert Prothore responded to her invitation, she managed to regain a measure of control, if not composure. "Might I ask Bertha to fetch you something to eat?"
"Thank you, but that will not be necessary." Prothore shook his head. As he did so Hester noted his loosened cravat, the faintly perceptible stubble of beard, the dislodged strand of hair banding his upper forehead. This was not at all in accordance with the image he was usually at such pains to maintain. Yet seeing him thus she was strangely moved, much as if she would like to take him by the hand to assure him that matters certainly could not be as bad as they seemed. What would his Aunt Agatha say if she saw him in such a sorry state?
But this was no time to entertain frivolous conjecture. Hester seated herself in a chair facing her visitor across the table. "You were about to tell me what happened?" she said.
It was mere assumption on her part, but Albert Prothore needed no further prompting. He spoke rapidly, fatigue betrayed only by the slight huskiness of his voice.
It was at Sir John Dermond's injunction, he said, that he ventured into Whitechapel last night. His observations would undoubtedly interest both his employer and Miss Scrimshaw, but that was not a matter of consequence at the moment. His only concern was to establish his whereabouts prior to nine-thirty of yesterday evening. At that time he hailed a cab on Commercial Road for his homeward journey.
It so happened that his home adjoined Mr. Utterson's property on the street directly to the north, and as the cab passed the solicitor's house to go round the square, he noted Utterson's front door was open and something was lying in its shadow.
Ordering the cabby to wait, he left the vehicle, hurried up the walk to the open doorway, and there encountered Utterson's body. The cabby, realizing the nature of his discovery, panicked and sped off. Prothore bent over the victim, seeking a pulse or some sign of life. And it was then that Inspector Newcomen drove up in a hack to find him in this compromising situation and take, him in charge on suspicion of murder.
"The time was shortly after ten," Prothore said. There were sharp lines about his mouth. He might be a man on the verge of asking for help against some strong weight of injustice. Gone was the very assured young gentleman Hester had heretofore always seen in control of every and any situation—at least so in his own estimation.
"I know that because I counted the toll of bells just before entering Gaunt Street. And since then there's scarcely been a moment free from the inspector's presence. He badgered me with questions for the greater part of the night. Naturally I denied any involvement in the affair other than that which I have just recounted to you, and which I swear to be the truth. It is my misfortune that there is no one who might serve as witness to my whereabouts during the time I spent in Whitechapel. Apparently this served to encourage Inspector Newcomen's repeated accusations, despite any denial or explanation I could offer. The man's insolence is insufferable."
"Of that I am well aware," Hester responded, then fell silent as her visitor continued.
"He did me only a single service," Prothore said. "Upon learning of my position at the Home Office, he withheld my name from the journalists who presented themselves for an account of the affair early this morning.
"Shortly afterward I was able to repeat my story when brought up before a magistrate. I own it something of a surprise that upon hearing the testimony, he ordered that I be released."
"You came here directly?" Hester said.
Prothore nodded. "It seemed best to inform you of the circumstances as quickly as possible." He paused, frowning. "My only concern was that I might be followed."
"Right you are, sir."
At the sound of the familiar voice Hester rose, turning to face the intruder. If Inspector Newcomen was aware of her indignation at his unannounced entry, he gave no sign of it. In point of fact she was ignored completely as he continued to address Prothore.
"I was curious as to what you might be up to if let out of custody," Newcomen said. "And here you are."
"What business is that of yours?" Now it was Albert Prothore who rose, the set of jaw and shoulders defiant.
"Why, I should think our business is mutual, at least until this case is settled." The big man seemed unmindful of Prothore's posture. "You want Mr. Utterson's murderer brought to justice, the same as myself. Or do you not?"
"I've already answered your questions. I’m no murderer."
"And I’m no fool." The inspector regarded Prothore with a squint-eyed stare. "Inquiries were made among your neighbors. It's been alleged that you and the deceased wasn't on speaking terms. There's that business of the wall you put up behind the garden. The solicitor said it was on his side of the property line and meant to take you to court over the matter."
"True,” Prothore said. "But this is hardly a reason to murder a man in cold blood." He paused for a moment, then continued. "And you, of all people, are in the best position to testify regarding my innocence. When you apprehended me you know I didn't have a weapon—nor any means of disposing of one."
Newcomen shrugged. "The cabby, perhaps? Suppose you lied about him taking fright. It may be he was an accomplice and went running off to dispose of the weapon."
"Rubbish," Prothore said. "I have no motive."
"Perhaps you do." The inspector turned to Hester as he spoke. "There's the question of the will. When we had our chat yesterday afternoon, I told you I meant to have a word with your solicitor."
Hester met his gaze. "I seem to recall you saying something of the sort."
"So it's 'seem to,' is it?" Newcomen's feet shifted, but not his gaze. "I put it to you that the thought of what Utter-son might tell me was enough to get the wind up. And it was you who sent Mr. Prothore to silence him."
"That's a damnable lie!" Albert Prothore's voice was elevated to a most ungentl
emanly level. "There was no communication between us whatsoever. She had nothing to do with this!"
"Am I to take it you acted alone?"
"I didn't say that—"
"There's little enough you did say to put my mind at rest." The inspector sighed gustily. "A heavy cross to bear— just knowing that if I'd called on Mr. Utterson a bit earlier last night, he'd have lived to see this sunshine today." Eyes that Hester thought might have been purposely slitted to a show of sorrow now flashed in sudden determination. "When that lily-livered little beak heard you mention the Home Office this morning, he couldn't wait to turn you loose. But I'm not done with you yet. There are others on the bench as is not so wishy-washy about matters concerning murder, and if I was to procure a warrant for your arrest—"
"You needn't do that!" Hester rose quickly. "I'll tell you what you want to know, everything he told me."
"He?" The inspector frowned.
"Mr. Utterson." Now Hester had the complete attention of both her uninvited visitors. "I gave him my word I'd not speak of this, but now there is no choice." She nodded at Newcomen. "If you would be so good as to close the door before taking a seat..."
The inspector complied, and a moment later both he and Albert Prothore sat listening as Hester broke her vow of silence.
It was not an easy matter to disclose, and as she continued she grew increasingly aware of how fantastic the account now seemed. The tale that had been barely believable when told in the dimness of the solicitor's office was utterly incredible in this sunlit setting. But she did her best to convey the gravity and conviction with which the solicitor couched his story. Whatever reservations others might have, there was no doubt that Utterson had told her the truth as he saw it—Dr. Henry Jekyll and Edward Hyde were one and the same.
Engrossed in the telling, Hester took little note of the response invoked. Only upon concluding did she give the auditors her direct attention, and it was to Albert Prothore that she first turned in expectation of support.
Norton, Andre - Novel 39 Page 15
