Sympathy, Tenderness

 

September 27th, 1:00 pm

The police have just left my residence. Sir Danvers Carew has been murdered. Oh, dear God, what have I done? I have unleashed this beast on the world. He is terrible, horrible, deplorable, despicable in every sense of the words, yet . . . I find I cannot hate him. I abhor his actions and I must admit, he is truly the most hateful being I’ve had any sort of association with, but . . . I disturbingly find myself having a father’s interest in his actions. Except for this latest regrettable one. However, I’ve delighted myself in observing his nature, his habits, his decisions in carving out a place for himself in this world.

Yet in a perverse fashion, he has a son’s indifference towards me. Indifference and something of a spiteful attitude no matter how kindly a suggestion is given. Though perhaps that is because kindness is not something he seems to understand. He is so full of malice. It’s like a poison that has infected his veins, distorting every aspect of him. I know things cannot continue as they are. Things are going too far in a direction I did not foresee. I must regain control of the situation.

The police questioned me about Sir Danvers’s murder because a walking stick was found near his body. Not just any walking stick! Mine, the one I received years ago, meant to honor me as a doctor and scientist. What would all of my colleagues think of me now, I wonder? What would they think if they knew I lied to the police? That I am indeed intimately familiar with the man they seek? I wonder if, as his appearance does for me, his name would provide as much disgust and alarm?

The name Edward Hyde . . .

Sherlock Holmes

 

Despite the ever-nagging fear that my leg could give out on me again, and the discomfort I suffered to walk long distances, I trudged my way to the Jekyll household on September twenty-seventh, starting out shortly after two in the afternoon. I simply wanted to take the time to think, because I sincerely had no idea how I would bypass Poole and actually talk to Jekyll if indeed he had concealed himself in his laboratory and refused to see even his closest companions. Despite my assurances to Watson that breaking and entering was something I would not do, I’d considered the notion. Yet I was aware that such an action was not something to be taken lightly, and only to be used as an absolute last resort.

I was so lost in thought that I didn’t hear the young lady trying to get my attention until she roughly grabbed my arm and stopped right in front of me. Yanked from my stupor, I focused on her annoyed expression and the tightness of her fingers on my bicep.

“I know you upper class folk like t’ pretend people such as me don’t exist durin’ daylight hours,” she started angrily, “but I need some ‘elp. I’m not lookin’ t’ offer you my services.”

She was the prostitute, Lucy, from the Red Rat. But of course, she wouldn’t recognize me; I was in disguise the last time I saw her.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” I said slowly, pointedly glancing at her hand until she released her hold. She didn‘t step back, though, and her eyes still flashed angrily. “I assure you, I wasn’t ignoring you based on any degree of social status. I was lost in thought over a case I’m investigating. I’m a consulting detective by profession, you see. May I be of some assistance?”

“Maybe you can ‘elp me detect where in this city ‘arley Street is, then, if you’re that good at findin’ things,” she said. Then she peered at me. “You are good at what you do, right?”

“Indeed, madam, I am.” Wait a moment. Harley Street? That was where Jekyll resided. “Why are you trying to find Harley Street?”

“I’m lookin’ for ‘im,” she said, holding out a business card to me. Indeed, it was Jekyll’s. I grinned slightly. “I’ve never been t’ this part of the city, y’see, so I don’t know where the street is. But I have t’ find it.”

“Are you ill in some way?” I asked, deciding to play along and see how much her words would reveal.

“Not ill, sir, but ‘urt. Y’see, I’m . . . well, you prob’ly already detected what I am. Polite folk like you would say I’m an unfortunate. Or a lady of the night, if you catch my drift.”

“Yes, I do indeed. And yes, I had already discerned your profession.”

“Profession, ‘ah!” she gave a sarcastic laugh. “That’s a interestin’ way t’ put it. It’s not like I chose it, you understand. But when a girl gets down on ‘er luck, she’s gotta do what she can to keep bread in ‘er stomach, ain’t she?”

I nodded, staring at the card again. I already knew from the roundabout way we’d spoken before, that she was no accomplice of Jekyll’s. I’d dismissed her after that, deducing that she was of no major importance to the case. But suddenly I found myself wondering why she had Jekyll’s card. It was, of course, something she wouldn’t mention possessing to a stranger. Especially not one so bedraggled as I had appeared. Why did he give it to her? Did he perhaps have a darker interest in the London nightlife? Was his relationship and upcoming marriage with Miss Emma Carew not enough to satisfy his more base urges?

Perhaps he derived some intellectual stimulation from this girl, because she did seem to be more than the two dimensional prostitute only out for the money men would give in return for sexual favors so the woman in question could buy food, lodgings, or cheap alcohol.

“Please, go on. You said you were hurt?” I asked.

“Yes. Well, a gent came by two nights ago, ‘round nine, I s’pose. Bought me for th’ evenin’. I was ‘appy ‘bout that. Not what I’d ‘ave to do, but the money ‘e’d claimed ‘e’d give me. It would’ve been enough, I coulda kept off the street for a week, maybe more. Most men like it when I take control. Make th’ rules, as it were. But ‘im, ‘e pushed me down on th’ bed, ‘ad ‘is way with me, and turned me on my stomach an’ cut up my back real ‘ard. I was so ‘urt, I could barely move. I tried to get up when ‘e demanded me to. ‘E was yellin’ at me and throwin’ things and everythin’ else, but I couldn’t! I was ‘urt and bleedin’ too much. So ‘e got even angrier and left me where I was and went out on th’ streets.”

I was horrified. Horrified enough that I forgot her station and the way the constables of this city would view her. “What a terrible ordeal. But why have you waited in searching for assistance? And have you gone to the police?”

She gave a cruel laugh. “A girl like me, tellin’ the coppers about a guy like ‘im? ’E may have looked odd, but ‘e’s a rich gent, and - ”

“Looked odd?” I interrupted. “How do you mean?”

“Well . . .” She thought for a long moment, scrunching up her nose in concentration. “’E was sort of . . . shriveled-lookin’. Like ‘is clothes was too big for ‘im. And ‘e walked kinda funny. Almost like there was somethin’ wrong with ‘im, but I don’t know what.”

“Why not?” I asked.

She gave me an indignant stare. “It’s not like I’m a doctor, y’know. I really couldn’t say. It wasn’t anythin’ definite, just somethin’ y’got the feelin’ of, if you know what I mean?”

“Yes, I believe I do,” I said. Whoever this man was, it was almost certainly the same one who killed Sir Danvers. “Let us hurry to Harley Street.”

When we arrived on Jekyll’s doorstep, Poole hesitantly let us in, and only because Lucy insistently showed him Jekyll’s card. Poole left us in the parlor, a room I felt I was becoming altogether too intimately acquainted with, and went to fetch Jekyll.

I merely observed Lucy as her mouth dropped open at the sight of such opulence. She stared in amazement at nearly every nook and cranny and then turned to me, a huge smile on her face.

“This is a marvelous place, isn’t it, Mr. Sherlock ‘olmes?”

“Yes. Yes, it is,” I agreed quietly. An unreasonable sadness that I did not allow to show on my face assailed me as I considered the childlike wonder present in this woman. She must have had all her other dreams fail her, or perhaps the social status into which she was born was not favorable to a wide range of professions.

“Miss?” Poole said moments later, reappearing in the doorway. “Mr. Jekyll will see you in but a moment.”

Lucy smiled and gave a quick curtsey. Poole eyed me suspiciously, but said nothing as he vacated the doorway.

Soon enough, Jekyll walked in. He stopped abruptly when he saw me, but then his eyes found Lucy. She stepped towards him, oblivious of his discomfort with my presence, and said, “’Ello. D’you remember me?”

“Um . . .” His mind obviously on other things, he nonetheless searched her face, looking for any hint of familiarity. He blinked several times, but no recognition lit up his eyes. “No, I’m sorry, Miss, I don’t.”

“It’s Lucy.” When he didn’t respond, she put her hands on her hips. “Lucy ‘arris? The girl from that night . . . You gave me your card. For if I ever needed a friend?”

“Oh, oh, yes!” Jekyll said, focusing on the card she held up. “Yes, I do recall saying if you ever needed . . .”

“A friend,” Lucy continued. “And I do. I was just telling Mr. ‘olmes about it. I was attacked by a ‘customer’ of mine two nights ago.”

“Attacked? Two nights?” That spurred Jekyll into alertness. “What happened?”

Instead of speaking, Lucy sat down on an ottoman near Jekyll, her back to him. She unbuttoned her blouse, shrugged it off her shoulders, and winced, hissing in a breath as the muscles and skin shifted with her sharp movement.

Jekyll’s eyes widened. “Dear God,” he breathed. “What horrible wounds! Who - who did this to you?”

“A real English gentleman,” she said sarcastically.

“Please, tell me about it,” Jekyll requested as he got gauze, assorted ointments, a clean cloth, and cotton balls from his doctor’s bag and poured antiseptic on a cloth. He gently pulled the material of her blouse aside a bit more to inspect the degree of damage to her skin.

Lucy looked to the intricate patterns of the carpet; it was obvious the idea of relating her nightly activities in front of Jekyll would be humiliating. A concept I found interesting and rather telling. Ladies of the night are not usually shy in their exploits with men. Once again, it struck me that she was not a usual unfortunate. She did not eye the items in the house with thinly-veiled greed, for one thing. Instead, there was honest interest. Not to mention that when one looked beyond the dialect she spoke with and met her eyes, there was an unmistakable shine of intelligence.

This was not some cheap and tawdry whore. This was an intelligent, thoughtful young woman whom life had been particularly cruel to.

All at once, it occurred to me that this was why Jekyll had given her his card if she ever needed a friend. He’d seen much the same in her that I just had. He’d given her something so few prostitutes ever receive: respect. She must have known that and now wished to show him respect in return, through her discretion.

Jekyll seemed distracted enough to not notice she wasn’t speaking. He splashed more antiseptic on his cloth and warned, “This may sting.”

“Don’t worry, I’m used t’ - ” Her voice failed her as Jekyll touched the cloth to her skin. She hissed in another breath and clutched the skirt she was wearing with both hands until her knuckles were white. Jekyll put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

As he cared for her wounds, Lucy relaxed somewhat and gave him vague details of the events she’d outlined for me.

“How horrible,” Jekyll murmured, though it was obvious to me he was simply spouting platitudes at appropriate times. I also noted he did not suggest, as I had, that she alert the police.

As he finished with the cloth and began applying fresh, clean gauze to soothe and cover her injuries, Lucy happened to say, “Well, at least I know ‘is name so’s to warn the rest of the girls about ‘im. Not a name I’ve heard before, but I’ll not soon forget it, neither.”

“And what was that?” Jekyll asked absently, cutting a piece of medical tape and applying it.

I leaned forward eagerly to catch what she said. She half-turned to look at him and, with none of the poorer section’s dialect of dropping H’s at the start of words, enunciated slowly, “Hyde. Edward Hyde.”

I was not allowed even seconds of victory over learning Carew’s murderer’s name, because as soon as Lucy said it, Jekyll’s hand slipped off her shoulder, and he paled and stumbled away from her. “Wh-what did you say?”

“Edward Hyde.” She fully turned to face him. “What’s wrong?”

“Noth - nothing. Nothing at all,” he said as he straightened, though I could tell there was a struggle for control happening beneath the surface. “There is a perfectly competent doctor at number two Devonshire. It’s nearby. Why not go to him? Why . . . why come to me?”

“You gave me your card,” she reminded.

“Yes, yes, I understand. But surely there is someone else to help you . . .”

Lucy, angry, brought her blouse back up and began buttoning it. “Someone else to ‘elp me? No, there isn’t. You gave me your card. Said if I ever needed a friend . . . But I guess it turns out I’m too low-class for you, eh? Well, I won’t make that mistake again!”

She turned away from him and I could see her eyes were full of tears. I turned a cold eye on Jekyll who, I was surprised to see, looked downright tortured. Lucy escaped the room and I made a split-second decision to follow her. I only caught her at the door because the lock mechanism gave her trouble.

“Lucy,” I said gently. “I don’t believe he means to hurt you, or that you are too low-class for the likes of his ‘lofty social position.’”

“Oh, no?” she asked, tears starting to course down her cheeks. “Then why isn’t ‘e ‘ere, tellin’ me this instead of you?”

“Henry Jekyll is . . .” I attempted to think of a way to describe this delicately, yet vaguely, “very consumed with his work at the present time. He’s just recently gone through a personal tragedy. It’s not that he cares nothing for you, or the danger you find yourself in.”

“What is it then?” she asked emphatically. “Ever since I first met ‘im, when ‘e turned down my advances but said if I ever needed a friend, I’ve found myself . . . Well, you’ll prob’ly think it’s ridiculous for someone like me t’ feel this way, but . . .” she trailed off, looking towards the room from which she had fled.

“You have feelings for him,” I surmised in a low voice.

“Yes,” she said, clearly surprised.

“Do not look so surprised. Just because I am primarily a coldly impartial logician does not mean I cannot recognize the feelings of a woman,” I said.

Lucy gave a self-conscious grin, casting her eyes down. “Bein’ ‘ere, talkin’ to you, well, it almost makes me feel like I’m a real lady.”

I opened my mouth to reply when Jekyll, silhouetted in the far doorway, said, “You are a real lady.”

She turned to him with wide, surprised, and pleased eyes. “You really think I am?”

“I do. I apologize for my behavior. But I can assure you, my social position has no bearing on how I see you. I’m something of an outcast in my own ‘social circle,’ anyway.” He came up to her, took Lucy’s hand and kissed it, then continued. “I’ll remember you next time, should you decide to honor me again with your presence. I hope that you will warn your friends about . . . Hyde . . . and that you never have contact with him again.” He paused, seeming to want to say much more, but settled on, “Should you ever see him again, run. I beg you, run.”

Lucy nodded solemnly at his somber tone. “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time.” She curtsied. “Thank you for your ‘elp. It’s good to know there’re really nice men out there.”

Jekyll gave what seemed to be a self-derisive grunt and turned away, walking back to the room where he’d treated her. I opened the door for her, then closed it and followed Jekyll. He stood at the large fireplace, leaning against the mantel, his head on his arm. I approached him slowly, stopping about three feet away.

“Who is Edward Hyde?”

He jerked back and looked at me and for the first time, I saw how much more haggard and run-down his appearance was. His eyes, which had simply seemed nervous when last I saw him, now had the unmistakable tinge of insanity. “Henry,” I said gently, “please. Tell me. Who is Edward Hyde?”

“He is . . . a colleague of mine.”

There was only a slight pause in his sentence, but enough of one to tell me Jekyll had lied.

“A colleague. Close enough to borrow one of your possessions?”

“What? No, I wouldn’t say that. He does not borrow my things.”

“Oh, no? Then how did he have a cane of yours two nights ago?”

Jekyll met my unflinching eyes then, his own filled with fear and dread. “You believe Hyde killed Sir Danvers.”

“Yes, I do. I think his evening with Lucy left him angry because it did not go as he planned. It was observed at first that Sir Danvers appeared to recognize the man who killed him. I think he mistook this Hyde character for someone else and because Hyde was already angry, he took that ferocity out on Sir Danvers. Not only that, he did it with your cane, Jekyll.”

Jekyll looked away.

“Are you protecting a murderer?!” I demanded, leaning my weight on my left foot and picking up my own cane, brandishing it harmlessly in front of him. “Jekyll, are you?”

“No!” he shouted. “No, I could never protect such a deplorable, despicable being! Sometimes I hardly think he’s human!”

Resting my cane back on the floor, I said, “So you do have more familiarity with him than merely being colleagues.”

He sighed. “Yes. Yes, I do. I cannot explain how, though, and to that decision, I remain adamant. You will not change my mind with either kindness or threats.”

“I plan to attempt neither,” I assured him. “I believe you when you say you aren’t protecting him. But . . . one last question: how long have you known Hyde?”

“Oh . . .” Jekyll gave it some careful thought. “I suppose it could be said I’ve been aware of him for as long as I can remember. But we’ve only become so . . . intimately acquainted . . . in the past few weeks.”

“Hmm. Interesting. Thank you, Henry.”

He looked at me sharply. “You act as though I’ve given something away.”

“Do I? I apologize. No, you’ve given nothing away. Merely given me food for thought.”

Jekyll gave me another sharp glance. After learning about my methods, and then testing them on me, I had no doubt he understood that I had lied. How much he guessed I knew, though, was another matter. In the end, he turned and walked away, muttering to himself as he went. I caught the term ‘HJ-7,’ but had no context with which to hypothesize what that could be.

Food for thought, indeed. A plan began to form in my mind, but I would need Erik’s assistance to truly succeed.

From the Journal of John H. Watson, M.D.

 

Holmes caned his way up the stairs and into 221B, nearly collapsing as he opened the door. Erik and I immediately went to his aid, supporting him as he limped to his chair. Once he was seated, he thanked us, took his pipe out, and lit it.

“Holmes, I thought you were going to stay off your leg? Not do so much walking around,” I said.

“Indeed, I had decided that, but I felt the walk would help me mentally, though it has definitely hampered me physically.” He looked at Erik. “I do apologize for not taking better note of your instructions, but remaining in a near constant state of carefully planned stillness and only light exercise is something I shall never get used to, I’m afraid.”

“You must learn your limits, Holmes. And by God, at least take a hansom cab on the return trip!” Erik said in a sarcastically good-natured tone.

“Dually noted,” Holmes said. He went on to speak of seeing Lucy, what transpired at Jekyll’s, and then told us he had a new theory about the experiment.

“What is it, Holmes?” I asked.

“Henry said he’s been aware of Hyde almost as far back as his memory stretches, but has only become so closely entwined with him in the last few weeks.”

“Hyde is the subject of the experiment?” I asked, shocked not only at the idea, but that I had spoken before Erik.

“It could very well be. Hyde has been described by two different people as having some kind of deformity, or appearing to, but neither was able to pinpoint what, specifically.”

“You think the experiment could affect a person physically?” Erik asked.

“Possibly. When someone isn’t born with a deformity, it can be difficult for others to pinpoint exactly what is wrong.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Erik said darkly.

“But I believe Hyde would,” Holmes said. “Now, the question emerges, how do we find him? And Erik, I’m afraid you and I have a mission tomorrow.”

“Yes?”

“Though I hesitate to do so while he is obviously home so often, I must take the risk and gain entrance to Jekyll’s laboratory.”

“Holmes, no!” I exclaimed. “What if Jekyll is in there? What if you’re caught? I know that you have some sway with the inspectors of the city, but even they cannot turn a blind eye if you are caught trespassing.” Another thought occurred to me, and for some reason, this struck me as even more horrible than Holmes being arrested. “Holmes, what if Hyde is in there?”

“Indeed. All of these things have crossed my mind as well. It’s part of the reason I didn’t take a cab back. I wanted time and solitude to think over my options, as well as each one of those possibilities. After all, Hyde has already killed one man - ” he stopped when he saw me pale and Erik’s jaw clench. “I’m sorry. Yes, Hyde’s description fits that of the man who killed Carew. Nonetheless, I must take the chance.”

“In addition,” Erik said before I could open my mouth to protest, “I’ve killed before as well. I shall bring my Punjab lasso. For protection only, I give my word. However, should we chance to cross paths with Hyde, I will not hesitate to use it, simply to render him harmless.”

“Agreed, as long as you don’t raise your own death count by one,” Holmes said. He massaged his leg. “Perhaps I should have thought more carefully about this excursion. Erik, do you have anymore of that wonderful concoction?”

I looked at Erik who seemed to produce a vial of clear liquid with an assortment of colored specks out of thin air. He handed it to Holmes and Holmes swallowed it in one quick gulp.

“Thank you,” Holmes said, handing back the vial. “Oh, that is extremely bitter.”

Erik took it, merely nodding his acknowledgement. “It can be taken as you just have, but it’s much more pleasing to the palate when mixed in something hot, like tea.”

Holmes smacked his lips several times, no doubt trying to rid himself of the taste, and I took my chance to ask, “I suppose I have no chance of convincing you not to enter Jekyll’s laboratory?”

“I’m sorry, Watson, but no. We know he has a journal. If that has nothing on the experiment in it, he must have notes, something that will shed more light on what his hope is, or who his ‘volunteer’ is. Once I find that, things will connect much more easily. I should like to get the information from Jekyll himself, but that will not happen. Whatever he’s doing, he’s determined to do it alone.”

As I was about to open my mouth, an idea occurred to me. A way I could assist Holmes and occupy Jekyll so that Holmes could, God willing, find what he was searching for. To Holmes’s and Erik’s surprise, I got to my feet and, quickly excusing myself, left the room.

I had to find Utterson.