It was two o’clock when she came to herself and called for the police. The murderer was gone long ago; but there lay his victim in the middle of the lane, incredibly mangled. The stick with which the deed had been done, although it was of some rare and very tough and heavy wood, had broken in the middle under the stress of this insensate cruelty; and one splintered half had rolled in the gutter—the other, without doubt, had been carried away by the murderer. A purse and a gold watch were found upon the victim: but no cards or papers, except a sealed and stamped envelope, which he had been probably carrying to the post, and which bore the name and address of Mr. Utterson.
This was brought to the lawyer the next morning.
“I shall say nothing till I have seen the body,” said he; “this may be very serious. Have the kindness to wait while I dress.”
And he drove to the police station, whither the body had been carried. As soon as he came into the cell, he nodded.
“Yes,” said he, “I recognise him. I am sorry to say that this is Sir Danvers Carew[16].”
“Good God, sir,” exclaimed the officer, “is it possible?”
And the next moment his eye lighted up with professional ambition.
“This will make a deal of noise,” he said. “And perhaps you can help us to catch the criminal.”
And he briefly narrated what the maid had seen, and showed the broken stick.
When the stick was laid before Mr. Utterson, broken and battered as it was, he recognised it for one that he had himself presented many years before to Henry Jekyll.
“Is this Mr. Hyde a person of small stature?” he inquired.
“Particularly small and particularly wicked-looking, is what the maid calls him,” said the officer.
Mr. Utterson reflected; and then, raising his head, “If you will come with me in my cab,” he said, “I think I can take you to his house.”
It was by this time about nine in the morning, and the first fog of the season. The dismal quarter of Soho seemed, in the lawyer’s eyes, like a district of some city in a nightmare. The thoughts of his mind were the gloomiest.
As the cab drew up before the address indicated, the fog lifted a little and showed him a dingy street, an eating-house, many ragged children huddled in the doorways, and many women of different nationalities passing out, key in hand, to have a morning glass; and the next moment the fog settled down again upon that part and cut him off from the surroundings. This was the home of Henry Jekyll’s favourite; of a man who was heir to a quarter of a million sterling.
An ivory-faced and silvery-haired old woman opened the door. She had an evil face, but her manners were excellent. Yes, she said, this was Mr. Hyde’s, but he was not at home; he had been in that night very late, but had gone away again in less than an hour. There was nothing strange in that; his habits were very irregular, and he was often absent; for instance, it was nearly two months since she had seen him till yesterday.
“Very well, then, we wish to see his rooms,” said the lawyer; and when the woman began to declare it was impossible, “I had better tell you who this person is,” he added. “This is Inspector Newcomen of Scotland Yard[17].”
A flash of odious joy appeared upon the woman’s face.
“Ah!” said she, “he is in trouble! What has he done?”
Mr. Utterson and the inspector exchanged glances.
“He is not very popular here,” observed the latter. “And now, my good woman, just let me and this gentleman come in.”
In the whole house, Mr. Hyde had only used a couple of rooms; but these were furnished with luxury and good taste. The plate was of silver, the napery elegant; a good picture hung upon the walls, a gift (as Utterson supposed) from Henry Jekyll, who was much of a connoisseur; and the carpets were of many plies and agreeable in colour. At this moment, however, the rooms bore every mark of having been recently and hurriedly ransacked; clothes lay about the floor, with their pockets inside out; drawers stood open; and on the hearth there lay a pile of grey ashes, as though many papers had been burned. The inspector disinterred the butt-end of a green cheque-book, which had resisted the action of the fire; the other half of the stick was found behind the door; and as this clinched his suspicions, the officer declared himself delighted. A visit to the bank, where several thousand pounds were found to be lying to the murderer’s credit, completed his gratification.
“You may be sure, sir,” he told Mr. Utterson: “I have him in my hand.[18] He must have lost his head, or he never would have left the stick or, above all, burned the cheque-book. Money is everything to him. We have nothing to do but wait for him at the bank, and get out the handbills[19].”
However, this was not so easy to accomplish; for Mr. Hyde had few familiars—even the master of the servant-maid had only seen him twice. His family could nowhere be traced. He had never been photographed; and the few who could describe him differed widely, as common observers will. Only on one point, were they agreed; and that was the haunting sense of unexpressed deformity with which the fugitive impressed his beholders.
Incident of the Letter
It was late in the afternoon, when Mr. Utterson found his way to Dr. Jekyll’s door, where he was at once admitted by Poole, and carried down to the building which was known as the laboratory or the dissecting-rooms[20]. The doctor had bought the house from the heirs of a celebrated surgeon. But his own tastes were rather chemical than anatomical, so he had changed the destination of the block. It was the first time that the lawyer had been received in that part of his friend’s quarters; and he eyed the dingy, windowless structure with curiosity, and gazed round with a distasteful sense of strangeness. At the further end, a flight of stairs mounted to a door covered with red baize; and through this, Mr. Utterson was at last received into the doctor’s cabinet. It was a large room, furnished, among other things, with a mirror-glass and a big table. There were three dusty windows barred with iron in the room. A fire burned in the grate; a lamp was set lighted on the chimney shelf; and there sat Dr. Jekyll, looking deadly sick. He did not rise to meet his visitor, but held out a cold hand and bade him welcome in a changed voice.
“And now,” said Mr. Utterson, as soon as Poole had left them, “you have heard the news?”
The doctor shuddered. “They were crying it in the square,” he said.
“I heard them in my dining-room.”
“One word,” said the lawyer. “Carew was my client, but so are you, and I want to know what I am doing. You have not been mad enough to hide this fellow?”
“Utterson, I swear to God,” cried the doctor, “I swear to God I will never meet him again. I bind my honour to you that I am done with him in this world. It is all at an end. And indeed he does not want my help; you do not know him as I do; he is safe, he is quite safe; mark my words, he will never more be heard of.”
The lawyer listened gloomily; he did not like his friend’s feverish manner.
“Are you sure? For your sake,” said he; “I hope you may be right. If it came to a trial, your name might appear.”
“I am quite sure,” replied Jekyll; “I have grounds for certainty that I cannot share with anyone. I have—I have received a letter; and I don’t know whether I should show it to the police. I should like to leave it in your hands, Utterson; you would judge wisely, I am sure; I have so great a trust in you.”