Till the Heavens Fall

A CODICIL TO JEKYLL’S will entitled Utterson to the full estate—property as well as half a million in sterling—three months after the doctor’s disappearance. But the lawyer had elected not to pursue this avenue (he destroyed the codicil entirely) so as not, ironically, to arouse any undue suspicion. And now, after waiting almost seven years to see Henry Jekyll declared dead in absentia, his rightful bequest was in danger of being ripped away, just five days before it was officially his, by a fiendish fraudster and a circle of friends who seemed inordinately disposed in the man’s favour. Not only that, but the unexpected response of Poole, on top of all else, now seemed the ultimate betrayal—for if a man cannot trust his butler, Utterson thought, then on whom can he rely?

What he needed, he decided, was someone who had known the doctor even more intimately than Poole. Hastie Lanyon had been Jekyll’s personal physician for a while, but he of course had been dead for some years. As for his replacement, Utterson had an idea that Jekyll had engaged a foreign doctor—some barely qualified fellow—but what in blazes was his name? He visited his files, where he kept a long list of Jekyll’s creditors, and eventually unearthed the answer—a bill in the name of one H. Preiss, MD, of Shoreditch.

He was at the address—an ugly modern abode with oversized windows—within ninety minutes. A severe looking hausfrau answered the door.

‘I am looking for a certain Dr. Preiss,’ he told her. ‘Might you know of his whereabouts?’

‘Who is asking, please?’

‘Mr. Gabriel Utterson, lawyer of the City.’

The hausfrau withdrew into the darkness; there was some guttural whispering and shuffling; and a bearded, bespectacled gentleman smoking a meerschaum pipe waddled to the door.

‘You seek Herman Preiss?’ he asked, in an accent as thick as pumpernickel. ‘That is correct.’

‘Then I cannot help you, sir—the doctor no longer lives here.’

‘Do you know where he resides now?’

‘The doctor is missing.’

‘Missing? For how long?’

‘For six months.’

‘And no one knows where he is?’

‘That is what I said.’

‘Then what happened to him?’

‘This I do not know.’

Utterson nodded. ‘Then have you ever heard of a man called Henry Jekyll?’

‘I have not.’

‘Have you ever seen a man around here, tall, particularly handsome, thick black hair greying at the temples, bronze complexion?’

‘This description means nothing to me.’

‘Then would you be so good as to contact me at my chambers, should he appear at any stage? Or if Dr. Preiss returns?’

The man agreed, without much conviction, and Utterson gave him a note bearing his firm’s Bedford Row address.

Utterson then remembered Jekyll’s dentist, a certain Dr. Bennett in Great Ormond Street, and he remembered also the peerless condition of Jekyll’s gums, and how, in certain recent cases—when a body was burned beyond recognition, for instance—dental records had furnished the only means of identification. Was it possible, then, that Bennett might expose the impostor simply by examining the man’s maw?

But Bennett’s residence, when Utterson found it, was like a gap in a row of perfectly maintained teeth.

‘Burned to ciders,’ one of the neighbours told him, strolling past with a feisty terrier. ‘Along with everything inside.’

‘And Dr. Bennett as well?’

‘Poor sod,’ the neighbour said, nodding. ‘Sleeping at the time, he was. Left a fire roaring in the hearth and the cinders set fire to the rug—or so they say.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘Two months ago, or thereabouts.’

Utterson surveyed the blackened ruins. ‘There were no suspicious circumstances?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘And what about his papers—his dental records?’

‘Have a look,’ the neighbour said, with the dog straining on its leash. ‘If wood and plaster failed to survive, then what chance would you give a man’s records?’

It occurred to Utterson that there was still another in London who had known Henry Jekyll even more intimately than his doctors. Moreover, the widow Spratling had a vested interest in clearing the matter up as efficiently as possible. But how could he bring the claimant before her? And how, for that matter, would he convince the impostor to submit to her examinations? He decided to visit her anyway, if only for the excuse of enjoying her company again.

When he arrived at her street in Shepherd’s Bush, however, he was surprised to find Terrence standing dumbly on the corner.

‘Good afternoon, Terrence—are you supposed to be out?’

The boy had his hands buried deep in his pockets and was staring fixedly across the street, where some half-dressed girls were skipping rope: ‘Two little dickie birds sitting on a wall, one named Peter, the other named Paul.’

‘Come with me,’ Utterson said, but when he extended his hand Terrence shook him off brusquely.

‘Very well,’ said Utterson, frowning. ‘I shall consult with your mother.’

Terrence, still watching the girls, was eerily silent.

Perturbed, Utterson continued to the widow’s door, upon which he knocked with his jackal-headed cane. But for a long time there was no response.

‘One bright and pretty, the other dark and small …’

He was about to turn back to Terrence, seeking an explanation, when the door flew open.

The widow Spratling, looking as though she had just tumbled out of bed, was dragging a shawl over her shoulders.

‘Gabriel!’ she exclaimed. ‘I thought it was Terrence!’

‘May I have a word with you inside, Nora?’ Utterson asked—the noise from the neighbouring bone-grinding works, not to mention the trilling of the skipping girls, was grating on his nerves.

‘One full of feathers, one with none at all …’

The widow hesitated, her hand still tight on the door.

‘I shan’t be long,’ Utterson assured her, then took the liberty of stepping into the musty passage. ‘I certainly don’t mean to bother you,’ he said, removing his hat. ‘It’s just that the impostor I’ve mentioned to you, the fraudster claiming to be Henry Jekyll, has been going around—’

He was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. Boards creaking like ship timbers. And then a cheerful, terribly familiar voice:

‘Utterson! Good Lord, man—can I not get away from you?’

Utterson, seized with dread, looked up. And saw, standing at the top of the stairs, the Jekyll claimant himself, stuffing his shirttails into his trousers.

‘Just like old times, eh?’

Utterson, shrunk to the size of pin, turned to the widow, whose eyes were downcast, then back to the claimant, who was smiling wolfishly.

‘Why not come join us, old chap? Good times for all, what?’

Starved of air, Utterson span around and stormed into the street, where even Terrence had an impish gleam in his eye.

‘A wicked wench, is your mama …’ the boy said, in a mocking old man’s voice, and Utterson stared at him until he could bear it no more.

Then he took off in the direction of the city, fleeing the scene like a biblical catastrophe, and wondering, fleetingly, if he might really have lost his mind.

‘Fly away Peter, fly away Paul; don’t come back till the heavens fall.’