I do not suppose that, when a drunkard reasons with himself upon his vice, he is once out of five hundred times affected by the dangers that he runs through his brutish, physical insensibility; neither had I, long as I had considered my position, made enough allowance for the complete moral insensibility and insensate readiness to evil, which were the leading characters of Edward Hyde.
—DR. HENRY JEKYLL
EDINBURGH, AUGUST 1888
Stevenson, Fanny, and Sam headed south after ten days, having confirmed virtually all of the plans for settling Thomas Stevenson’s estate. Stevenson’s mother would remain in Auld Reekie until the most pressing items had been attended to, and then decamp herself for Bournemouth, where the family could decide exactly what lay in store for them.
Stevenson had received a flattering letter from the editor of New York’s Scribner’s Magazine, offering him a contract for twelve articles to be written over the course of a year at an astounding £60 per article. The magazine was especially interested in travel pieces, which made a return to the United States all the more sensible and appealing. This time, however, Stevenson would be traveling not as an impecunious and unknown foreigner, desperate to claim Fanny from her adulterous husband, but instead as the luminary author of the wildly popular Jekyll and Hyde—meaning that all of the household’s transportation and accommodation would now be first-class. Fanny, especially, savored the prospect of a triumphal progress across her native continent in the kind of flush circumstances she could only have dreamed of in the past. Sam, too, was keen enough to “go home,” and Margaret Stevenson continued to surprise her son with the gameness she brought to her new life as a widow. Stevenson found himself wondering, poignantly, if his mother had not suffered in some of the same ways he had, throughout her years under his father’s stern and restrictive eye.
It was not without twinges of profound melancholy that Stevenson bid adieu to the home he had moved to at the age of seven. While Fanny waited with Sam in the library, their luggage already stashed in the family barouche, he undertook a pilgrimage through every room of the house. The most richly charged station of his wistful progress was, not surprisingly, his old nursery on the topmost floor. A few toys remained on the dusty shelves that lined the west wall, some of them the clear originals of this or that prop in the Child’s Garden poems: a toy drum with a broken head, a pirate’s hat and cutlass, a battery of tiny brass cannons. The lingering genius of the place, however, was the spirit of the resolute little Scotswoman who had spent countless long nights with him there, nursing him through fever or fright—Alison Cunningham, to whom he had dedicated his nostalgic collection of verse. My second mother, my first wife, the angel of my infant life—from the sick child, now well and old, take, nurse, the little book you hold!
He indulged himself in a lengthy minute at the window, looking across at the long row of houses up against the skyline of Queen Street. It was to this prospect that Cummy had carried him on those frequent nights when sleep refused to come. Pulling back the curtains, she had pointed to whatever windows still shone there high above the dark belt of gardens, wondering if there weren’t other sick little boys up there as well, waiting with their nurses for the dawn. Cummy had meant to be there this very day to say farewell. Sadly, a relative had taken ill, such that she could only send a written message to “her boy”—a note that, very much to her customary form, balanced in equal measure deep affection and the sternest admonition about the future.
He entered the drawing room last of all, where the indelible shade of his father hovered in the darkened chamber like the effigy of a vanished king. Of all of the times they had shared the space, it was the very last that had torn from Stevenson words he might have given his soul not to have had cause to write.
Once more I saw him. In the lofty room,
Where oft with lights and company his tongue
Was trump to honest laughter, sate attired
A something in his likeness. “Look!” said one,
Unkindly kind, ‘look up, it is your boy!”
And the dread changeling gazed on me in vain.
“Richard seems like a nice boy.”
Fanny settled her handbag by her side in their first-class compartment as the Bournemouth train bucked once or twice and eased out of Waterloo Station on the last leg of their return from Edinburgh. They had left Sam in London for a two week stay with a school friend prior to the start of the term. “Don’t you think?”
“He does,” replied Stevenson, looking up from the Times. “They seemed happy to see each other.”
Fanny nodded. “I’m worried, though, about his skin.”
“Richard’s?”
“Sam’s, you ninny.”
“What precisely are you worried about? That he’s growing so fast his skull and feet will pop out his two ends?”
“Honestly, Louis. Your perpetual attempts at humor sometimes try my patience.”
“In that event, I shall do my best to be endlessly dour. How is this?” He pulled his chin down into his chest, arching his lips into a glum scowl. Fanny tittered in spite of herself.
Sam had grown what seemed like three or four inches over the spring and summer, if one judged by the unfashionable rise of his trouser cuffs above his boots. As a result, he fully expected to be moved into the second row of his rugby fifteen. He had also developed an impressive case of acne, something more for Fanny to hold against his birth father, who had suffered the same condition as a youth.
“I myself have always had the skin of a Vestal Virgin,” Stevenson declared. “You should have waited to become a mother until you met me.”
“Sometimes I think I did become a mother when I met you. Yours!” Minutes passed as the train gained pace and London’s sooty, brick sprawl yielded to the fields and lanes of Surrey. Fanny reached into her bag for the novel she had been reading: Haggard’s She. Stevenson had pressed it upon her as both a stirring tale and one, he averred, that boasted a central character with whom she might feel some commonality. Fanny needed to read no more than the title to appreciate his sarcasm. She was nonetheless finding it to be good fun.
“My God! How awful!” exclaimed Stevenson a minute or two later.
“Hmmm. What, dear?”
“Another murder of the foulest kind,” he read from his paper, “in the neighbourhood of Whitechapel. At a quarter to 4 o’clock Police-constable Neill, 97J, when in Buck’s-row, Whitechapel, came upon the body of a woman lying on a part of the footway, and on stooping to raise her up in the belief that she was drunk he discovered that her throat was cut almost from ear to ear. She was dead but still warm.”
Fanny cringed visibly. “Good heavens!”
“He procured assistance and at once sent to the station and for a doctor. Dr. Llewellyn, of Whitechapel-road, was aroused, and, at the solicitation of a constable, dressed and went at once to the scene. He inspected the body at the place where it was found and pronounced the woman dead. He made a hasty examination and then discovered that, besides the gash across the throat, the woman had terrible wounds in the abdomen.”
Fanny stared at him aghast. “What is this world coming to?”
“It’s the third murder of a prostitute in Whitechapel in six months,” said Stevenson, shaking his head. “And the second in four weeks.”
“Do these women know what they’re risking?”
“I have no doubt. But times are hard. And they know they have a market, I suppose. It’s a way to stay alive. Or it should be.” The thought of Old Town Mary leapt distressingly to mind. Would she and her compeer be reading these accounts as well? Might they just be waiting for a lowland killer to come north in search of new quarry—or for some twisted Edinburgh regular to try his hand at what was now a newsworthy trick?
“One may search the ghastliest efforts of fiction,” he read on, “and fail to find anything to surpass these crimes in diabolical audacity. The mind travels back to the pages of De Quincey for an equal display of scientific delight in the details of butchery; or Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘Murders in the Rue Morgue’ recur in the endeavour to conjure up some parallel for this murderer’s brutish savagery. But, so far as we know, nothing in fact or fiction equals these outrages at once in their horrible nature and in the effect which they have produced upon the popular imagination.”
“‘Nothing in fact or fiction,’” said Fanny, sighing deeply. “Nothing, at least, they have been allowed to see. Thank God, Louis, you destroyed that first draft of Jekyll. A girl trampled in the street, running for the doctor, is a far cry from a bludgeoned whore.”
“Amen,” said Stevenson.
While it was a considerable relief to be back at Skerryvore after the emotional trials of the journey north, Stevenson struggled to re-establish his routine. Cassell’s had finally sent along a contract for a sequel to Kidnapped, but David Balfour stubbornly refused to offer any hints about where he hoped to go with his life, and the brownies seemed to have gone into some kind of hibernation. The best the mourning son could do was potter away at a piece tentatively titled, “Thomas Stevenson, Civil Engineer,” thereby parleying his grief and manifold regrets into a lame simulacrum of creative energy. Within a matter of days, however, a letter arrived from Henley in London that put paid even to that meager effort.
It bore the highly unsettling news that, in light of the ongoing series of macabre murders in Spitalfields and Whitechapel, the Lyceum had suspended for an indefinite interval its performances of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. The Times and other London papers had received dozens of letters declaring how unconscionable it would be for the theater to stay lit while the precise sorts of inhuman violence that were drawing crowds to its seats were also taking the lives of real Londoners in dark alleys mere miles to the east. Not a few editors suggested, in fact, that the brutality represented in the play had effectively inspired the crimes now associated with “Leather Apron.” For a brief time, the principal actor, Richard Mansfield, was himself even considered a suspect. It took Henry Irving and some other men of influence to provide him with an unassailable alibi.
Apprised of this shocking development, Fanny stood next to the chair in which Stevenson slouched in despondence, a bottle of whisky by his side.
“There’s no reason to think there is any connection,” she said softly but assertively. “No reason at all. The first murder—the Smith woman, was it? That happened last April.”
Stevenson stared at her blankly.
“Jekyll opened in August,” she explained.
“And since then, what? Three more women have been butchered.”
“One of the killings was the day after the opening. The night after, Louis. Are we supposed to think someone was turned into a monster by three hours at the Lyceum? And then went out the very next night and slit open a prostitute’s belly?”
Stevenson looked up at his wife with tortured eyes of the kind she was accustomed to seeing only when he was in the deepest throes of a fever. “It could happen that way,” he said. He reached shakily for the whisky and poured himself another measure, spilling a jot on his trousers.
“Louis,” said Fanny, pulling a chair up in front of him. She reached out for his left hand and, cradling it in hers, stroked the back of it gently. “If it happened that way…and there’s no reason at all to think it did. But if it did—even if it did—it would be Mansfield who might feel guilty. It would be his doing, not yours!”
Stevenson peered at her fixedly, pausing before he shook his head. “The story’s mine, Fanny. Hyde is mine. I brought him to life.”
“You wrote a book, Louis. What people are talking about is the possible effect of a play. The possible effect. And it’s not even your play.”
“I loosed him on the world. And look at what he’s done.”
“Louis!”
“What a vile, stupid creation he was. Is!”
“Stop it!” cried Fanny, throwing his hand down into his lap. “You’re drunk, and you don’t know what you’re saying. It’s total nonsense, for God’s sake! There’s nothing linking you to anything.”
“No? No?”
“None at all!”
What seemed like a cough turned into a deep, gasping chuckle. “There’s Symonds, Fanny! No? Symonds’s letter. He said it could push a man over the edge, what I wrote. What I wrote!”
“Symonds is a madman, Louis. He’s unstable. He’s a buggerer, for God’s sake.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. It’s written all over him.”
He tipped his glass up to his lips. Finding it all but empty, he reached again for the bottle. “Even if he is. And remember the damn… all those reviews.”
“I don’t remember any stupid reviews. And you’re drinking too much. Please stop.” Fanny reached for his wrist, but he shook her off and poured himself another measure.
“Remember? The Times?” he muttered. “‘Horrible things,’ wha’d they say? ‘not often attracting the public.’ But this story attracted ’em, didn’t it? And something about awakening ‘strange sensations?’ My God, Fanny!” He threw himself forward in his chair, his head crashing down onto his forearms. His tumbler leapt from his hand and rolled across the carpet past Fanny’s feet, leaving a trail of pungent spirits.
“I don’t know what else to say.” Fanny sat back and folded her arms in a mixture of combativeness and despair.
“Don’t you understand?” When Stevenson lifted his head his eyes were flushed and brimming. “Hyde is my creature.”
The clock struck midnight. The fire had all but died in the grate, and a chill had taken over the room. Stevenson shivered with the tolling and looked over at the bottle. It lay on its side, empty. No solace there. He rose to his feet and stumbled towards the door, his shoes scraping noisily on the bare floorboards between the carpet and the hallway.
“Shhhhh!” he hissed at himself. “You sound like the fucking cavalry.”
He kicked off his shoes and they clattered up against the wall.
“Shhhhh! Shhhhh!” He advanced a few steps in his stocking feet. “Like a mouse. Creep like a wee drunken mousie.”
He reached the staircase and, grabbing hold of the newel post, swung himself around it with a momentum that brought him hard up against the inner side of the banister. He struck his face on the handrail, he knew, but it scarcely pained him. Grabbing the rail, he pulled himself up the stairs, one at a time, left foot first, right following. Up. And up.
He reached the top of the flight and spun back towards the front of the house and the door to his room. Was Fanny asleep? Or just lying there waiting? Probably asleep. He stopped at the door and leaned heavily against the frame. Was that her breathing? He snorted to himself and continued down the hall, wondering if the floorboards would creak. No, thank God! On to the next flight. He grasped the rail. Left, and then right. Up. And up.
“Ain’t this folly, Thomson?” he giggled under his breath. “Very naughty. Naughtier naughtiest.”
He reached the top floor and endeavored to tiptoe down the bare hallway, reaching out with his right hand for support from the wall.
“Am I smudging? Best not smudge.”
This was Millie’s door, he thought dimly. Millie and Agnes’s. He passed quietly by, feeling an excited constriction in his chest. Then this would be Valentine’s. Oh my! He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb and reached for the knob, turning it as slowly as he possibly could. Was it turning? Had it moved at all? The latch clicked free of its seat and he almost fell into the room, taking a few quick steps to keep from crashing onto the floor.
There was a brisk rustle of bedclothes. “Qui va? Qui va là?”
“C’est moi, Valentine. Ton…mâitre.” He closed the door behind himself, pushing it too hard. The latch engaged with a deafening clack. “Shhhh!”
“What are you doing here, monsieur? Is something wrong?” He could hear her sitting up in the bed.
“Yes.”
“What is it?” There was the sound of fumbling. She struck a lucifer and lit the candle on her nightstand, staring at him wide-eyed in the mounting chiaroscuro glow.
“Everything’s wrong.”
“Wait, please. Let me get out of bed. Let me put on my robe.”
“No!” hissed Stevenson, again louder than he meant to. “Right there. I want you there. Stay there.”
She had thrown her legs over the edge of the bed, uncovering them to rise. She drew them back in, pulling the bedclothes over herself once again. The candle cast her shadow on the wall to Stevenson’s left. Huge. Leaning towards him. Perfectly still.
“What do you want?”
“What do I want?”
“Yes.”
“What do I want?”
She remained motionless, silent, bracing herself on her hands. Her nightgown was pulled slightly open. He could see the soft swelling of a breast.
“I don’t know. Damn me, Valentine, I don’t.” He did know, though, that he was on the brink of weeping.
“Come,” said the woman, sliding to the side. “Come. Sit.” She patted the bed next to her. “Look at me.”
He did as he was told.
“You do not know what you want?”
His head dropped to his chest and he shook it slowly, side to side.
“I believe I know what you want.” Her voice was silken in the chill air. He could smell the warmth of her. “But not this.”
“No?” He tried to focus on her face, but the room was swimming in the dancing candlelight.
She reached for a handkerchief on the table and lifted it to wipe a tear from his cheek. He had never seen her do anything so gently, and it unmanned him.
“No,” she replied. “Not at all. Now then!” She reached up to gather the bodice of her gown more closely about her. “Tell me why everything is wrong. How it is so.”
As best he could in his condition, Stevenson shared his anguish over the dreadful turn he had seen his work take. At times he blubbered, half expecting her to reach out and comfort him, but she sat there calmly, clinically, taking everything in. When he had finished, or thought perhaps that he had, she reached out and, for the briefest moment, pressed his knee.
“Madame Stevenson is right. You know?”
“Right?”
“It is not your fault how someone acts when they read what you write. Unless you tell them this is the way they must act. And even then, it is their choice, yes?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“Please, monsieur. It is the things we do that matter. Not the stories we tell.”
He looked at her blankly. It put him in mind of something. Did it have to do with his father?
“You know the story ‘Hansel and Gretel?’”
Stevenson laughed.
“You do?”
He nodded.
“If someone reads ‘Hansel and Gretel’ and decides to eat children for his supper, has the story made him do that?”
He laughed again.
“It is what you do, monsieur. Your acts. If you had come and forced me this night, that would have been a sin.”
His stomach clenched as though he might be ill.
“I wouldn’t do that, Valentine. I would never force you. I suppose I thought…I thought you—”
“Shhhh! Shhhh! Let me tell you a story.” She reached over and slid the candle slightly closer to them on the nightstand, and then adjusted herself in the bed. “One time, years ago—I was thirteen—my brother came to me at night. Very much this way.” She nodded gravely. “He was eighteen. He was, how do you say, amorous? He loved the girls. This night, my brother came to me in the middle of the night and he fell on top of me. In my bed. I cried out and he grabbed me by the throat and he told me he would kill me if I was not silent. I was so frightened that I believed he truly would. So I fought him in silence until I could fight no more. He was very strong, you see. And it finally hurt me more, I thought, to fight against him than to let him have his way. And he did.”
“God, Valentine,” sighed Stevenson. “I am so sorry. I am so sorry.”
“You may feel sad at me and my story. Good. Then you feel what a good man should feel. It was also good that, tonight, you did not do something to regret. That would be sinful. It would be unforgiveable.”
He could not recall, at that moment, any other utterance that had left him feeling so chastened and penitent.
“Let me tell you this now before you go to bed. Your own bed.” She lowered her head and peered at him sternly. “I have been with no man since that night. I was not before and I have not since. I have no taste for these things with men. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
Valentine pulled her head back and, surprisingly, laughed softly. “‘I do.’ This is what you say to the priest, yes? When you marry?”
“It is.”
“I do,” she repeated, as though trying it on for size. “Now, go to Madame Stevenson.”
“Valentine—”
“We will not speak of this. Not with anyone. This is for us alone to know.”
He had scarcely closed her door before he began to wonder, in the dim way his condition allowed, how he could have misjudged this woman so utterly, so completely misread her intentions. It was a matter to revisit some time when he felt less likely to vomit.