My devil had been long caged, he came out roaring.
—DR. HENRY JEKYLL
LONDON, NOVEMBER 1888
“So, John, you’ve heard nothing more from Swanson? Nothing at all?”
Stevenson, Fanny, and Symonds sat in an elegant suite in the Grosvenor Hotel, sipping their mid-afternoon tea. Rain beat on the tall windows, and the casements rattled now and again in the strong westerly. It was still early November, but the gas fire was lit and they had gathered their chairs closely around it for warmth.
“Not a word.” “How long do such things usually take?” asked Fanny. “Do we know?”
“I expect every case is different. Would you agree, Louis?” Stevenson nodded and reached for a cigarette. He lit it and drew in deeply. “What is your feeling, John? Could there be something irregular happening here?”
“I don’t know. Honestly. But I am loath to sit idly by while Hallett continues to run rampant.”
“Shall I tell you what I have been thinking?” asked Stevenson. “Thoughts that may speak to the lethargic pace of the investigation?” He blew a slim jet of smoke up towards the chandelier.
“Please do.” “Bear in mind that I earn my living making things up. Fabricating patterns.” He gazed at his wife with a lively grin.
“Then I shall be sure to listen with the greatest possible skepticism,” chuckled Symonds.
“I always do.” Fanny reached over and slid the ashtray closer to her husband.
Stevenson glowered at his wife in mock reproach. “You’ll also do well to recall that I am a duly-sworn member of the Scottish bar. So you might accord me a modicum of credibility as well.” He went on, affecting now the voice of a haughty barrister. “We have, then, an array of facts before us. And we are now looking for a narrative thread that binds them all together. First,” and he raised a slender forefinger to one side of his moustache, “no evident action has yet been taken by Scotland Yard. This despite their having in hand, for over a month now, some extremely useful information about the man whom we know to be the killer. Had they been only as vigilant as we have been, rank amateurs that we are, they would most certainly have tracked and apprehended him after this last murder.”
His companions nodded. “Second. It was my distinct impression that, despite anything he may have said explicitly, Chief Inspector Swanson seemed as vexed as he was pleased that we were approaching him with said information. Would you agree, Symonds?”
“I believe I would. So he seemed.” “I would also say that, when Swanson asked Symonds to name the killer, he looked less interested than a donkey at the opera. Now, moving backwards in time, we have Detective Inspector Abberline. His manner was far more welcoming and professional than Swanson’s, but he showed a curious reluctance to hear Hallett’s name as well.”
“He insisted that all particulars of that sort were meant solely for the ears of higher-ups,” Symonds explained. “It was indeed curious.”
“It suggested to me that this is an investigation on which the reins are being held very tightly,” Stevenson went on. “I can certainly see the point of keeping sensitive information away from the average, patrolling constable; but for the inspector in charge of the entire Whitechapel endeavor to balk at hearing the perpetrator named, within his own precinct house? That strikes me as very odd indeed.”
“It does,” agreed Fanny, leaning forward in her chair. “Finally,” said Stevenson, carefully stubbing out his cigarette, “there was the remarkable business of Hallett walking within forty yards of the Whitechapel police station, with no apparent qualms at all. He clearly knows the neighborhood.”
“So either the man was drunk,” offered Fanny, “or he was emboldened by some other factor. He was effectively fearless.”
“My thought exactly. So,” Stevenson concluded, turning to their companion, “can you, dear Symonds, conjure up a plausible scenario to account for the Metropolitan Police seeming to take only a fitful interest in our man—and also for our man’s apparent disregard for the threat of the Metropolitan Police?” He steepled his hands in front of his nose expectantly.
“How could I not?” Symonds replied. “I have been thinking of little else for the past week.”
“And your theory?” “Quite the obvious one, I should think.” Symonds looked at them both with an eyebrow raised. “That the police are for some reason wary about what Hallett might divulge if he is called to account.”
“And why would the police be wary?” asked Fanny. “Hallett isn’t one of them, correct?”
“Not at all,” answered Stevenson. “But the police answer to people more powerful than they.”
“Indeed.” Symonds turned guardedly towards Fanny. “Perhaps Louis has told you about the house in Cleveland Street?”
Fanny looked to her husband before she nodded. “I took the liberty,” allowed the writer. “I hope you will forgive me.” “Of course.” Symonds blushed slightly but went on. “This establishment, as you can imagine, makes every effort to mask the identity of its clients. At the same time, one occasionally comes to learn something about one or another of them. And some, I fear, are very highly placed.”
“Oh my!” exclaimed Fanny. “And Hallett himself is well connected too, isn’t he?”
“He is,” Symonds replied. “An heir to thousands. But I also know that hardly a week passes at the place without a visit from another fellow who is an equerry to the Prince of Wales.”
“And an equerry is what? I don’t think we have equerries in America.” “An equerry is a kind of aide-de-camp to a member of the royal family,” Symonds explained. “They once looked after the nobility’s horses. But their responsibilities in this day and age are considerable. This man of whom I speak is himself a lord.”
“Well, there it is,” exclaimed Stevenson, slapping his leg.
Fanny looked at her husband and nodded slowly. “So Hallett might be arrested…but unless the charges are dropped and the affair is hushed, he would go to the Times with information about this male brothel and its highly-placed clients. Provided he knows about this equerry person.”
“He is extremely likely to know,” replied Symonds. “Hallett makes it his business to know everything. If Somerset’s involvement were somehow a secret to—” His hand rushed to his mouth. “Oh my. What have I said?”
Stevenson’s look of surprise gave way to a grin. “Nothing I can even begin to remember. Can you, Fanny?”
“Can I what?” she said, grinning as well.
Symonds snorted in amusement. “Thank you. Both. I was saying that there are other men of prominence and power who use the place. There are rumors—although rumors only, mind you—that a certain young member of the royal family itself, someone rather high in the line of succession, has been a patron.”
“These are plausible rumors?” asked Stevenson. “Very.” “Well,” declared the writer as he leaned back in his chair. “There’s our plot. If it’s not the truth, it’s such a damn convincing fiction that it ought to be.”
Fanny clapped her hands in satisfaction. “I think it’s completely convincing!” Her expression sobered abruptly. “Although we’re not just discussing the fates of paper characters, are we?”
“Hardly,” affirmed Stevenson. “So what’s to be done?” she asked. “What do we do?”
The afternoon gave way to evening, and the rain moderated its assault on the glazing. The three of them entertained a number of plans, all of them based on the assumption that Scotland Yard would ultimately fail to pursue the case against Hallett. If Swanson were to surprise them, they agreed, and hauled the man in during the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, they need do nothing more. They assumed otherwise.
Their hope was that Hallett could somehow be dissuaded from further butchery. He evidently had no fear of the police, so there was no use in threatening to do in the future what they had already fruitlessly done in the past. Somewhat more promising was the threat to go to the press with the story of Lizzy Stride; but, as Stevenson pointed out, there was no knowing if the papers would be any more willing than the police to risk turning a sizeable stone—which might then turn another even more sizeable one—under which a member of the royal family might be sequestered. Perhaps the best strategy, they concluded, was to threaten Hallett with the public exposure—by whatever means—of his own sexual inclinations and practices. Once that story was out, with whatever further revelations and consequences it yielded, the police themselves would be all the more likely to move on him. Symonds, of course, was all but certain to go down in the fray. Nevertheless, he bravely reiterated his earlier promise to take that devastating chance if all other steps failed.
They ordered supper brought up: thick beefsteaks with two bottles of fine cabernet. As they dined, Stevenson, with a wineglass in his hand and the vivid example of Walter Ferrier very much in his thoughts, commented on what could be the insuperable strength of Hallett’s addiction. Even if this man could somehow be intimidated into standing down from his dreadful compulsion, who was to say that he would not resume it in the months or years to come—or simply carry it across the Channel the very next week? When Fanny insisted they must nonetheless take some definitive action or count themselves morally bankrupt, Stevenson felt there was really nothing holding them back.
“If we are resolved to proceed, then,” he said, setting down his glass and pouring himself a cup of coffee, “what is our plan?”
“Well, to begin with,” observed Symonds, “the confrontation must be in a private setting.”
“Agreed,” replied Stevenson. “Despite the potential danger of dealing with Hallett in an isolated spot.”
“Surely we can enlist some others to be there,” suggested Fanny. “And there are already three of us. And just one of him.”
Stevenson turned to his wife with concern. “I would suggest, love, that it would be extremely unwise for the both of us to be involved.”
“And why is that? Because I’m a woman?” “Because you are Sam’s mother. If something untoward were to happen, we would risk leaving him alone in the world.”
“That means you think there’s likely to be trouble?” “I would certainly hope not. But it’s difficult to predict.” “Well,” said Fanny, “we’ll see.” “Yet Fanny is right,” said Symonds. “We can surely enlist some aid.” Stevenson tugged thoughtfully at his ear. “I hesitate to bring too many others into the affair. As you yourself felt earlier, no? Some compromising information is bound to be bruited about.” He looked sympathetically at Symonds.
“I don’t agree at all,” countered Fanny. “I’d think a show of force might cow the man. Make him more inclined to go along.”
Symonds frowned. “I am not at all certain that Hallett is a man to be cowed. Still, I agree it would be best for there to be four or five of us present. And perhaps some men of physical stature.” He looked apologetically at Stevenson, then spread his hands to his sides as though to acknowledge his own unimposing physique.
Stevenson nodded matter-of-factly. “And location? A private room at the Athenaeum will hardly do,” he noted with a smirk, “and Portman Square is out of the question. He will have a substantial household.”
“You have no home in London, John?” asked Fanny. “No longer. And, aside from that, I cannot imagine Hallett being prevailed upon to pay me a visit in any case. He has a rather low regard for me, I fear.”
“That is probably to your credit,” said Fanny with a gracious smile. She lit a cigarette. “So what would lure him out? What is this particular wolf’s goose?”
“We certainly know what draws him to the East End,” mused Stevenson. “But that seems to be very much on his own timetable. And this is not a conversation for a public thoroughfare, no matter how crepuscular.”
“The establishment on Cleveland Street?” suggested Fanny. Symonds shook his head. “I think, though, that you’ve likely hit on your goose.”
“A boy,” exclaimed Stevenson. “New boys.”
Symonds nodded. “Where?” asked the writer. “I don’t know. But we can certainly find a place.” “And how do we get him there?” asked Stevenson. “I expect my telegraph lad might be the means,” Symonds offered. “He could tell Hallett that he has learned about a new den of pleasures. Perhaps with some exotic fare. Lads from Bombay? Mormon youths from Utah?”
“There are ‘special offerings’ like that?” Fanny asked. “And that would attract him?”
“Yes on both scores. You can be sure.” “This would require quite a deception on the part of your young friend,” observed Stevenson. “Is he up to it, do you think?”
“My boy Matthew has…a certain dramatic flair.” The shade of another blush rose on Symonds’s face. “One day he might well leave the telegraph office for the stage.”
Stevenson looked over at Fanny, who sat there ruminating, her cigarette held up next to her face. She raised a brow, and then nodded.
“Well, then,” said Stevenson, sliding to the front of his chair. “It sounds as though we have our plan. One thing remains. Or two.”
“And they are?” asked Symonds. “Finding a location—” “I will make that my business,” declared Symonds. “Together with finding a pair or three of good men. And then?”
“And then a means of getting Hallett there.” “That’s for my lad, didn’t we say?” “No. I mean a conveyance. We can’t have Hallett riding there in his landau. We don’t want a carriage man or his men involved.”
“A hansom, then,” suggested Fanny. “Engaged by John’s young friend and stopping at Portman Square to pick Hallett up. Wouldn’t he spring at the chance to travel anonymously in a new situation like this?”
“Brilliant,” exclaimed Stevenson. He turned to Symonds. “Do you see, John? Here is the true genius of the Stevenson clan. Odysseus in a dress, conjuring up a Trojan whore.”
Four days later, the details had all been attended to. The uncle of Symonds’ telegraph boy was a builder, just finishing a pair of terraced houses in West Hampstead. They were not quite ready for occupancy, but one of them could easily be made to look inhabited from the outside. The street was quiet and isolated, perched on a steep rise above Shoot-Up Hill and very close to the railway. Symonds had also had luck recruiting a pair of men to augment their numbers. George Lusk’s Whitechapel Vigilance Committee met every evening at nine at The Crown in the East End. It had been a simple matter to secure the services of a couple of its members who, Symonds felt, could be counted upon to believe strongly in their cause. He had offered them a significant advanced payment, and assured their discretion as best he could through a promise of more, were they to keep their endeavor completely sub rosa.
That evening at ten, Stevenson and Symonds were riding in a hansom cab up Edgware Road. Each of them carried a substantial stick. Symonds’s, in fact, concealed in its shaft a narrow sword.
“Here’s hoping I shan’t have to resort to it,” he confessed, drawing the blade halfway out to show his companion.
“Are you at all practiced in its use?” “Not particularly,” shrugged Symonds. “I was rather counting on being inspired in the moment. Should the need arise.” He smiled sheepishly.
“I shall trust to this.” Stevenson slapped the heavy head of his cane into his gloved hand. “Although I dearly hope, as you do, that words will suffice. You are certain of your men?”
Symonds nodded. “They should be there when we arrive.” “And of your boy?” “Matthew will not fail me.”
They soon reached Shoot-Up Hill, where they turned east through a thickening fog. Gas lamps along the way glowed inside balls of gauzy vapor, the sum of them strung out like burning pearls on a long black wire. St. Elmo Mansions sat a hundred yards up the first road of the left, just short of a streetlight, its name readily legible in the backlit fanlight over the door. The bow windows on the first floor were illuminated as well. While there were no plantings as yet in the narrow front garden, the place could well pass for occupied. Stevenson nodded approval to his companion as they stepped down from the cab.
“Thank you,” said Symonds to the driver. “If you could attend us around the corner there, we should be finished close to half past eleven. Let us come to you, though.”
“Yes, sir,” said the man, and the horse clopped off.
The two of them stepped through the gate and up to the front door. “It should be unlocked,” said Symonds. He tested the handle and the door swung inwards into an illuminated atrium. Another door, half glass, led to the tiled inner hall, where two men stood leaning against the wall.
“Batchelor. Laughton. Thank you for coming,” said Symonds, walking up to them. “This is Mr. Stevenson.”
The two men nodded. While it was certainly good to have the numbers, neither of them looked to be much more imposing than the average man. Batchelor was almost the writer’s height and certainly of a stouter build, but there was something halting about his manner, a man to be led but not to lead. Laughton was short and markedly overweight, with the red face of a drinker and a cheery manner to match.
“Shall we go upstairs?” asked Symonds. “I see from the window that the flat is already lit.”
“We done that, sir,” affirmed Laughton. “We brung lamps and lucifers, just like you said.”
“Excellent.” He looked at his watch. “10:25. We may expect our visitors at eleven. Has either of you two gentlemen thought to bring a deck of playing cards?”
The time passed quickly enough. Stevenson stood near the window, listening for the sound of a carriage and struggling, now and again, to hide the strange yawns that came with his overwrought nerves. Symonds and Laughton, seated next to the rough table, engaged in small talk over the lantern that rested there. Batchelor meanwhile leaned against the mantle on which the other lantern glowed brightly, inspecting, then nibbling, each of his fingernails in turn.
Eleven o’clock. 11:05. 11:10. No sounds rose from the street. Stevenson looked uneasily at Symonds.
“They will be here,” the latter declared with assurance. “Matthew can be trusted.”
Just short of 11:15 a hollow clop of hooves echoed up the street, growing steadily louder. It had to be them. Stevenson longed to look out the window, but Symonds peered at him sternly, motioning him back against the wall.
The hansom stopped just below, its horse dancing nervously for a moment before it settled and stood still. They could hear the iron gate open and close and, a moment later, the front door. The faint sound of voices swelled to audible conversation as the inner door opened.
“It’s just up the stairs, sir,” said a high tenor voice graced with an affected lilt. “The first-floor flat.”
“It sounds awfully damn quiet to me,” growled a much deeper voice. Stevenson flinched as he recognized it. He stared over at Symonds, who had risen from his chair and grasped his stick in both hands.
“What? Is everyone asleep?” the voice went on. “Tucked up all tidy in their beds, are they?” The low laugh made Stevenson want to retch.
Footsteps echoed up the first flight of stairs to the landing and then back around.
“They’re a quiet lot,” said the lighter voice. “They does their work in silence. Not knowing English and all.”
“No English! Now, that should be amusing.”
They arrived on the first-floor and approached the door. “It should be that for you, sir. Very amusing.”
The knob turned and the door swung open. The first to enter was Symonds’s friend, still wearing a telegraph company uniform under his heavy overcoat. He was small and fair with what looked to be blue eyes and features of a girlish delicacy. In the second he entered, he caught Symonds’s eye and stepped quickly off to the side, making way for his companion.
Stevenson was prepared for Hallett to be a large man, but the figure that followed Matthew into the room made the door look as though it had been scaled for a lesser race. He was well over six feet tall, with massive shoulders the muscling of which was evident even beneath his heavy cloak.
“What mischief is this?” he scowled, looking around the room. “There are no boys here.” It was an exceedingly handsome face: high brow with a long, narrow nose and prominent cheekbones. The moustache was neatly trimmed, but the man’s expression was the essence of arrogant cruelty. He wheeled around as Batchelor pushed the door shut and retreated a full two steps, his diffidence growing more apparent by the second. Hallett raised his stick in threat, and the man stumbled back almost to Stevenson. Hallett wheeled again, leveling his gaze at Symonds.
“You!” he hissed. “You sniveling bitch. I thought I had put you on notice to stay clear of me.”
Symonds pulled his shoulders back and faced up to the man, his stick still gripped tightly in his hands.
“Well?” snarled Hallett, taking a step closer. “What exactly is afoot, then? Why are we all here?” He scanned the room with a mocking sneer. “We merry gentlemen. And then these…others.” He stared with disdain at Laughton, who met his gaze with ruddy determination.
“We know who you are,” said Symonds, just managing to find his voice. “And what you have been doing.”
“What I have been doing? Do you mean this?” He pointed his stick at the youth. “What you have been doing as well, no? Buggering the blond boy? Fucking his lily-white arse?”
“We followed you to Whitechapel, Hallett. We saw what you did on Berner Street.” Symonds pointed to Stevenson, who felt his blood chill as the man’s gaze turned on him. If a serpent could have arms and legs, he thought, and wear a top hat, this would be he.
“You did, did you?” said the man, slipping into a matter-of-fact voice that was somehow more appalling than his growl. “Saw me wiv me knife an’ all.” He turned to broad Cockney. “Doin’, who was it? Eddowes? Stride? It is sooo hard to remember.” He turned back to Stevenson and, quite unbelievably, winked.
“You have a choice, Hallett,” said Symonds, again bracing himself. “I do? Oh, good. Do tell.” “You can stop what you’ve been doing. Swear on your honor to stop what you’ve been doing—”
“Wait, wait, wait,” interrupted the man, fluttering his fingers like a pantomime fool. “Honor? You speak to me of honor?”
“I do,” replied Symonds. “Do you have any?” Stevenson could hear anger mounting in his friend’s voice. It didn’t bode well.
“Well,” replied Hallett, spreading his feet to the width of his shoulders and leaning his hands on his stick in front of him. “We shall see. Perhaps I do. And what’s my other choice, then?”
“Failing your stopping, you can resign yourself to our telling the Times everything about you.”
“They’d never print it,” sneered Hallett. “I know certain thingsssss.” He drew the word out like a whispering asp. “And they knows I knows ’em.” He gazed smugly at Stevenson. “Besides,” he added after a pause, “it’s only whores I’ve been seeing to. Who cares in the least about whores?” He glanced hatefully at Matthew. The youth’s lip trembled as he looked on.
“In truth,” continued Symonds, “I was rather thinking of telling the Times about Cleveland Street. About you and me and Matthew and everyone else at Cleveland Street.”
“You’d ruin yourself for this?” scowled the man, peering at Symonds in disbelief. “For a handful of common sluts?”
“I would.” “No,” said the man, with a violent shake of his head. “They won’t publish. They wouldn’t dare.”
“Then I shall go to other papers,” cried Symonds. “Less hide-bound papers. And to the Church. And to Parliament. And I shall shout the news in the street myself until your family hangs its head in utter shame!”
With the rising wail of a beast, the man leapt at Symonds, ramming his hand up under his throat and dashing him back against the wall. Laughton rushed forward, grabbing the attacker by the right arm. “Batchelor!” he screamed. “Batchelor!”
As Laughton’s companion approached, Hallett tossed the smaller man back and, whirling with his cane, caught him just above the eye. There was a distinct crunch and the little fellow collapsed to the floor, blood gushing from his forehead. Batchelor took one step back, then two, and then he grasped the doorknob and rushed from the room.
Symonds crouched unsteadily against the wall, his hands raised to his throat, his eyes bulging from their sockets.
Hallett turned back towards him. “Now, you art-fancying little cunt. Shall we end this little farce?” He grabbed Symonds’s throat once again and, dropping his stick, concentrated all of his prodigious might on the other’s neck.
Stevenson looked on, inexplicably petrified. Symonds’s eyes were rolling back into his head. “Stop that!” he called out at last, shocking himself with his imperious tone. “Stop that, you fucking scunner!”
Hallett looked back over his shoulder. Sizing the writer up with an infuriating coolness, he laughed obscenely and turned again to Symonds.
It was enough. Stevenson ran the last steps to the wall and, raising his stick in both hands, he brought it down with all his might. He swung so hard that he felt his boots lift off the floor as the blow whipped down towards the neat part in the fellow’s hair. The stick might well have broken, but it held fast. The crack that pulsed up through the shaft was in Hallett’s head, and Stevenson was powerfully inclined to feel it again. A bitterness flooded his mouth, like a fiery draught of the strongest whisky he could imagine. Fire and spirit. Spirit and fire. He felt his tongue broach the slippery wall of his teeth. Hallett almost managed to turn again after the first blow, almost managed to see Stevenson’s face contort as he struck, but he did not quite get it done before the heavy cane fell again.
The second blow was like a bellows to the first, and the flame inside Stevenson roared larger. There at its incandescent core, writhing in the scalding vapor, he fancied a tiny simulacrum of himself, half boy, half ancient man, crouched and then rising, straining, stretching out arms and legs and neck until his smoldering skin split at the extremities and a far larger, brighter, more shimmering version of himself burst forth. He scarcely had the strength or will for another blow—but there. And there again. And then it was Matthew’s voice calling out behind him.
“Mr. Stevenson, sir! You’ve done for him. Sir! You can stop now.”
Symonds was still on his feet when Stevenson thought to look back at him. His breath came in harsh pulls, but it was coming.
“John,” cried Stevenson, dropping his stick on the floor. “My God! Here. Sit! Matthew. Find some water.”
Matthew also found Batchelor, out in the foggy street, cowering against a low shed opposite the house. When they were back in the room, Stevenson handed the poor man a five-pound note and told him to hurry his companion in the hansom below down to the South Hampstead Police Station, there to secure medical attention. The little fellow was bleeding profusely, but he answered to his name and managed, with some assistance, to stumble down the stairs and into the cab.
Stevenson sent Matthew for the carriage waiting around the corner at the top of the street. Together with Symonds, he dragged Hallett’s limp body out of the flat and down the stairs, the feet thudding down every riser. A boot snagged on one step and was pulled straight off, but the two left it lying there as they manhandled the massive body through the door and gate and onto the damp pavement. While they waited for the cab, Stevenson held his fingers against the man’s neck. The pulse was strong enough and regular, but his breathing was extremely shallow. Once the hansom clattered up, they managed with Matthew’s help to heave the unconscious man up onto the floor and prop him against the seat, with his knees jammed up close to his shoulders. They would have to ride with the half-doors open; but with a lap robe thrown over Hallett’s head, it was unlikely anyone would notice the cab’s unusual fare. Matthew assured them he could find his way safely home, and, with a curiously shy farewell, the young man made his way towards West End Lane.
They arrived at Portman Square just short of midnight. A lamp still burned outside the door of Number 43, and the ground floor windows were illuminated, so it was well that they stopped several houses short of their destination so as not to be noticed in arriving. With the driver’s assistance, they pulled Hallett from the cab and dragged him along the pavement to the foot of the steps that rose to his front door. As the driver turned the hansom as quietly as he could manage, they leaned Hallett against the rail and placed his hat and stick in his lap, folding his gloved hands over top of them.
While Symonds pinned a note to his cloak, Stevenson once again checked the man’s pulse. No change, despite the blood he was obviously losing. He tiptoed up to the door, half expecting it to fly open and flood the scene with light. The house remained perfectly still. Turning to be sure that Symonds was on his way back to the carriage, he reached up for the unusual knocker. It was the face of Medusa, hinged on a heavy plate of coiling serpents. Gripping it firmly, he brought it down three times, hard, despite the alarming din, then turned and raced for the cab.
Stevenson struggled hard to catch his breath as they trotted towards St. James. If he had ever felt this wrought, the memory escaped him entirely. He asked repeatedly if Symonds needed medical attention, only to be assured by his friend that he would be just fine. Stevenson resolved, still, to see him all the way to his room at the Athenaeum.
As they turned on Piccadilly, he thought of the note he and Symonds had quickly penned to leave for Hallett’s discoverers. We are returning your master, it read. He received no more than he deserved. It might be best to summon a doctor. Tell anyone who asks that Jack has met with Justice.
“God in Heaven, Louis! Have you killed him?”
Fanny sat up ramrod-straight in her bed at the Grosvenor, staring aghast at her husband. Twice she had asked him to sit while he rendered his grim account of the evening. Stevenson protested that he was still far too agitated. He had managed to stop pacing the thick carpet, but he continued to sway on his feet as though the opulent suite were a square-rigger pounding through an antipodean gale.
“I doubt it. His pulse was strong enough when we left him. If his people fetched a doctor, I expect he can be saved.”
“Not that he should be, the beast.”
“No. No. Where are the cigarettes?” “In the sitting room.”
Stevenson disappeared for a moment, then returned to resume his pacing, a cigarette pinched between his thumb and first two fingers.
“I can’t tell you how restless I feel,” he said. He blew a great jet of smoke up towards the electric light fixture. “Wild.” The memory of the pummeling possessed him, both the horror of it and, more strongly, the confounding elation he had felt. Somehow, it felt like an infidelity.
“Won’t you please sit down?” Fanny abjured him. “Take off your overcoat at least.”
He stopped his shuffling and looked down. Nodding dumbly, he slipped out of the heavy garment and tossed it on a chair.
“And Symonds?” “Symonds will be fine. He’s had a dreadful scare. He assured me, though, he’s fine.”
“And now?” Fanny adjusted herself against the pillows. “Will Hallett’s people go to the police?”
“I don’t know. If they do, I honestly don’t know what they could pass along. I am quite certain we weren’t seen.”
“You’re positive?” “How could I be? But they wouldn’t be in the habit of waiting up for him, would they? Given the hours he keeps.” He walked over to the bedside table, tapped off his ashes, and resumed his perambulations. “Or kept.”
“God, Louis!” Fanny sighed. “Do you think they have any notion of what he’s been up to? This ‘gentleman’ they work for?”
“Hard to say. But if they didn’t before, they may well now.” “Why? How so?” “Symonds and I left a note. To let it be known this wasn’t a random thrashing. We said that Jack had come to justice. Something along that line. Any of them who knew, as his coachman must to some degree have known, are likely just to say the jig is up. Can you imagine their running off to Scotland Yard? Asking Inspector Swanson to avenge their kind employer, Jack the Ripper? Anyone smarter than a bedpost will simply let it out that their master has taken deathly ill.”
“And if he’d somehow managed to keep it all a secret?” “Our mentioning Jack might set them to thinking. And, besides, I really can’t imagine they have any notion at all of who did for the bastard.”
“So you say.” Fanny threw off her covers and slid out of bed to don her robe. “What if Hallett recovers?”
“Which, I suppose, he may. I’m afraid I don’t have much experience cracking heads.”
“Thank the Lord for that. But couldn’t he go to Scotland Yard?” Fanny adjusted her robe and slipped back into bed. “And charge you with assault? You no longer have any evidence in hand against him.”
“I wouldn’t if I were he.” “Because?”
Stevenson stopped again and gazed at her intently. “The police may have overlooked his depredations until now. Owing to certain political pressures. I seriously doubt, though, that they would actually take his side in an ensuing legal case.” Fanny appeared to agree. “What’s more, he’s now substantially added to his own ledger. Criminal assault against a gentleman? There are five of us who could attest to that. Provided Laughton recovers.”
“And he should?”
Stevenson nodded. “All right,” continued Fanny as she reached back to adjust her pillows. “That’s reassuring.” She sat there for a moment, looking about the room. “Of course, Hallett could still come after us, no? Directly. If he recovers.” The anxiety in her voice was patent.
“I have thought of that. But I don’t see how he could possibly know who I am. Moreover, we’ll soon be in America. I worry far more about Symonds.”
“Honestly,” agreed Fanny. “But I suppose Hallett could find out from the police that you went to them with John.”
Stevenson shook his head. “I don’t think so. Again, though, their laying off the wretch to this point is a far cry from collaborating with him going forward. To assist a murderer in his revenge?” He shook his head once more. “I can’t imagine Abberline or Swanson revealing my name.”
“Let’s hope you’re right.”
Stevenson stubbed out his cigarette and looked about vacantly, as though he might fetch another.
“Won’t you please sit down? You’re making me impossibly nervous. As if I weren’t nervous enough already.” Fanny slid to the side and patted the mattress next to her. “Here. Sit!”
Stevenson sighed and sat down by her pillows. He turned and leaned back against the headboard, swinging his feet up onto the counterpane. “Damn it! My boots.” He grimaced at a dark smear of mud on the cream-colored fabric.
“It will wash out,” said Fanny, patting his arm.
Stevenson chuckled. “What?” “‘Out, damned spot!’” He smiled at her. “I’m just another murderous Scotsman now. Or the next best thing.”
“And I suppose you think your wicked wife put you up to it?” “No,” he grinned. “You were just a co-conspirator.” “I can live with that.” She slid closer. Grasping his arm in both her hands, she laid her head on his shoulder. “Are you feeling more calm?”
“No. This is likely the most exciting night I shall ever spend. Aside, of course, from my first night with you.” He smiled at her again, a trifle distantly. “And, for all intents and purposes, it is a night that can never have happened.”
Fanny looked at him with her eyebrows raised. “We’ve entrapped a man. And then I have beaten him nearly to death.”
“There is that!”
For a moment they sat in silence.
“What about them?”
“I really must take them off.”
Fanny stared at him in amusement. “The damage is already done.” “Truly I must.” He swung his legs to the floor and untied his shoes, placing them side-by-side next to the bedside table. He swung his stockinged feet back onto the soiled counterpane. “Do you think I shall ever have a biographer?” he asked after a long minute.
“Now there’s a change of topic.” “Not really.”
Fanny snorted dryly. “Colvin’s offered to take care of your immortality. Hasn’t he?”
“Colvin is a wee bit older than I.” “True.” “Healthier, though. Perhaps he’ll outlast me.”
Fanny squeezed his arm again, more sharply. “I don’t want to hear that, Louis. Especially not on a night like this.”
“A night like this.” He turned towards her and kissed the top of her head. “It is truly ironic, Fanny. As I’ve said to Symonds, I’ve amused myself for weeks now thinking this whole affair was very much like something I was conjuring up in a book. With myself as the hero. And you, of course, as the heroine.” He leaned over and kissed her again. “And, once more, it’s a tale that can never be told.”
“Well, I don’t know.” “What do you mean?” “Set it in New York City,” suggested Fanny. “Call it ‘The Vigilantes.’”