From the journal of Sherlock Holmes as transcribed
and edited by his literary agent
Having had the opportunity whilst still undertaking my University studies to exercise my aptitude for meticulous observation and deductive reasoning to unravel several problems brought to my notice by my fellows, I resolved upon completing my eclectic course of study to make my name as a Consulting Detective. I was living at the time in rooms near the British Museum but it occurred to me that if I could find someone with whom to share the rent I could afford more spacious accommodation. Consequently I made some inquiries and learned of a suite of rooms in Baker Street not far from the underground station. A meeting with the landlady, a Mrs Hudson, proved the rooms to be eminently suitable and, although several people had expressed interest, nobody had yet taken them. At that very moment the doorbell rang and a broad-faced, clean shaven, fair skinned gentleman of some fifty summers was ushered in by the pageboy.
“Why, Doctor Jekyll!” exclaimed the landlady “How nice to see you again.”
“It’s ‘Jeekyll’, remember, Madam,” replied the man amiably in an Edinburgh accent, “with a long e?”
“Yes, my apologies, Doctor,” said the landlady “Have you come to inspect the rooms again? This is Mr…Holmes…who is also interested.”
“How do you do?” said I. “You have been in Edinburgh I perceive.”
“You can tell by my accent? Most English folk don’t have such a finely tuned ear when it comes to the Scots brogue.”
“It was partly that, but I observe that your tweed jacket is woven of that particular fibre that is unique to Edinburgh and its surrounds. It is a year old at most so I concluded that until recently you dwelled in that city.”
“Why, that is extraordinary.”
“Superficial.”
I ventured to ask whether he practised in London.
“No,” he replied, “that is, not yet. I have been conducting private research at my own expense, but needs must…”
“Might you be amenable to splitting the rent between us?”
“Possibly,” responded Dr Jekyll, a little tentatively. “The size and location of these rooms would suit my needs well.”
“Though not myself a physician, I studied several medical subjects while at the university. I too am interested in this suite but could not afford them alone.”
Jekyll studied me pensively for a moment then said, “Perchance we could come to some arrangement to our mutual benefit. I have, at the moment, other demands on my purse.”
He enunciated it “purrse” with the distinct burr I had noticed earlier though in other respects his brogue was not a pronounced one.
“That would be splendid,” said Mrs Hudson. “You gentlemen strike me as the quiet, studious type and that would suit me admirably.”
Without further ado we shook hands and arranged with the landlady to move our belongings in during the coming week. Jekyll and I descended to the street.
“Would you care for a libation?” I asked. “There is a public house at the corner.”
“I…don’t drink,” said Dr Jekyll, “but a glass of tonic water would be most agreeable.”
We adjourned to a corner table where we could talk undisturbed.
“I hope you do not object to violin playing,” said I. “It is best for two fellows to know the worst about one another before sharing diggings. You don’t mind the smell of strong tobacco, I trust, for I am an inveterate pipe smoker?”
“I am not myself a smoker but I don’t dislike the odour. I find it quite pleasant.”
“I generally keep chemicals about and conduct experiments.”
“I conduct experiments myself so that would not cause me any problems. Quite the opposite.”
“I get down in the dumps at times and don’t speak for days at a time.”
“I quite understand. I, too, have times when I am not quite myself.”
“And what have you to confess, Dr Jekyll?”
“Well, let me think,” said the doctor. “As I mentioned, I do not take alcohol nor do I smoke, but don’t think me priggish. I come and go at odd hours at times. I had a period of ill health before coming to London and I believe I am past that now but I object to rows. I have another set of…vices…when I am well. But rest assured I do not consider the sound of the violin to be a row, nor cause for one, if well played.”
“You must be the judge of that,” I laughed. “Let us toast a satisfying future.”
We clinked our glasses and drank to 221B Baker Street and agreed to book a removalist van to transport our belongings at the earliest opportunity, picking up my goods from Montague Street and then collecting Jekyll’s chattels from his hotel.
We carried out the move of our respective belongings, and as we sorted our possessions into our respective rooms Jekyll asked me what occupation I followed.
“I am starting out in a trade of my own,” I replied. “Just as a consulting physician is approached for his expertise by other medicos, I hope to be a consultant in the field of detection.”
“Detection?” asked Jekyll, looking up from his unpacking.
“There are many official detectives in London,” I explained, “and many private investigators. When these fellows are at a loss they can consult me.”
“That sounds potentially a most interesting line of work,” commented Jekyll. “Do you feel you can make a success of it?”
“Time will tell,” I replied though inwardly I felt confident that I could indeed achieve some renown.
The next few weeks did not, however, bear out my optimism. Jekyll spent his days at the chemistry laboratory at London Hospital. I had offered him the use of the ‘chemistry corner’ I had set up in Baker Street but he politely declined, pointing out that a paper he had published had sufficiently impressed the Hospital board that they had allowed him to use their facilities. A succession of small matters, insignificant in themselves, gradually led me to believe that Dr Jekyll was being less than frank with me. Since we had not long known each other that was hardly surprising. I am not a terribly outgoing individual myself yet I instinctively felt that I should not advertise the extent of my deductive abilities until such time as my doubts took stronger form.
I was musing on these matters one day while filing my findings in my recent investigation into the murder of the cabman, Albert Gray. The case had enjoyed some notoriety in the press and gripped the city and when the official force made little headway beyond rounding up the usual suspects I had been consulted; leading to the arrest of Donald Fettes and Wolfe MacFarlane. What had initially seemed a rather commonplace murder proved to have a number of points of interest that set it apart. I heard footsteps mounting the steps from the street and Dr Jekyll returned from the hospital. He looked rather worn and tired, and a little dishevelled. I wondered whether the ill health he had mentioned at our first meeting was troubling him once more.
We were exchanging pleasantries when Jekyll’s attention was arrested by the papers on my desk. He paused and looked up, seeming oddly disconcerted, and seeing my raised eyebrows he muttered something about having been acquainted with ‘Toddy’ MacFarlane.
His use of MacFarlane’s nickname suggested something more than a casual acquaintance. I did not press the point but taking up a volume of legal history I removed a bookmark and endeavoured to give the impression I was merely resuming some earlier reading, but Jekyll’s behaviour confirmed my resolve not to draw undue attention to my powers. We ate the dinner our landlady brought up from the kitchen in silence after which Jekyll excused himself and I adjourned to my bedroom and lit my pipe.
The following morning the boy in buttons knocked on the door to announce a Mr Newcomen to see me. I motioned to him to take the basket chair.
“What can I do for Scotland Yard?” I asked.
“You recognize my name?”
“No, but I see the official notebook in your waistcoat pocket and your police issue boots. These proclaim that you are a plain clothes police officer and the spatters of mud on those boots and on your trouser cuffs is that reddish soil surrounding the private rear entrance to Scotland Yard. The newspaper folded in your overcoat pocket is this morning’s Daily Mail reporting the murder yesterday of Sir Danvers Carew. You have underlined certain passages and made marginal notations. Ergo, it is about this matter that you wish to consult me.”
“I see the reports have not exaggerated your abilities,” said my guest. “One of my colleagues at The Yard, Mr Lestrade, thought you might be able to offer some advice. Your comments reveal you have read of the murder of Sir Danvers.”
“All the papers were full of it. When a man expected by many to be a future Prime Minister is bludgeoned to death…”
“Quite. Mr Lestrade tells me you have a knack when it comes to weapons. Identifying them, I mean. Our medical examiner confirms that Sir Danvers had his skull fractured repeatedly by some heavy club. If you’d be so good as to accompany me to examine the body I have a four wheeler waiting.”
“My fellow tenant is a medical man attached to The London Hospital. Perhaps he could accompany us? His expertise might prove helpful.”
I knocked on Jekyll’s door to briefly explain our mission. He leapt at the chance and we joined the Inspector outside.
The detective shook Jekyll’s hand and began to explain the reason for our expedition.
“We have a witness to the murder. A servant girl. She describes the killer as a small man. Almost dwarfish. And of particularly repellent appearance.”
“Would you have any objection to me interviewing her?” I said.
“She is has been sedated. The experience upset her greatly. But I’m sure it could be arranged for tomorrow.”
Once we arrived the Inspector escorted us to the morgue where Sir Danvers lay on the examination table. The wounds to his cranium were extensive. I took out my magnifying lens.
“The weapon would appear to have been a heavy, bulbous-headed walking stick. Probably of the type known as a ‘Penang Lawyer’. More interesting are these splinters caught in the crook of his elbow which suggest that the blows were so violent that the stick actually broke. I would also suggest that when you undress the body—and I appreciate that you left it fully clad to permit me to examine it just as it was found—that you will find the right collar-bone broken, as well as broken bones in both hands beneath his gloves.”
“Yes. Doubtless incurred as he tried to shield his head from the blows,” said Jekyll.
The mortuary attendants proceeded to undress the M.P.’s body and we found in addition to the other wounds that there were two fractures to his spine. For my part I continued my examination but my lens did not reveal anything pertinent to identifying the murderer. While Jekyll took an interest in the matters he had little to add to the proceedings beyond confirming the cause of death as multiple fractures to the parietal bone.
We concluded the interview and set out for our lodgings, but something the Inspector had said awakened a half-forgotten memory in me that I could not bring into clear focus as we travelled. Arriving back in Baker Street Jekyll excused himself saying he had to be off to the hospital to further his experiments. There was little else I could do pertaining to the Carew murder until I had a chance to speak to the servant girl, and this was dependent upon requests I sent being responded to.
Jekyll did not return until evening and we sat in silence over our meal; I because I was deep in thought about the Carew killing and wracking my brain to summon whatever latent memory Newcomen had jogged. Jekyll just appeared rather distrait after our trip to the morgue.
The following morning I left early to pursue some research at the British Museum, not returning until mid afternoon. I then settled myself into the wicker chair and took out the packet of papers relating to the Gray murder. I suddenly froze because it was clear to me that Jekyll had been examining them again in my absence. So, I had been right about Jekyll having secrets. This was patently something more than morbid curiosity. As though to punctuate the realization the front doorbell sounded.
“I’ll get it, Mrs Hudson,” I called. It was a middle-aged, sombre-looking man. I observed that his top hat, while elegantly polished, was slightly misshapen. I recognized that this could only be the result of a medical man keeping his stethoscope therein.
“Come in, Doctor…”
“Lanyon, Hastie Lanyon,” said he to my unspoken query. “I am an old friend of Harry Jekyll. Is he at home? A mutual friend, Gabriel Utterson, told me I might find him here.”
“Alas, I must disappoint you. I don’t expect him home until about five this afternoon. Could you call again for him then?” Lanyon agreed, seemingly quite happily, and departed.
I could of course have directed Dr Lanyon to the London Hospital laboratory but my interest was piqued and I felt I could learn more if I could observe the two of them together. In the meantime it seemed to me no bad thing if I were to find out a little more about what Jekyll was up to in that laboratory. I have some proficiency in the art of disguise, having taught myself the use of greasepaint whilst at the University where I undertook classes in drama for that very purpose.
Accordingly, I applied a false, bulbous tip to my rather aquiline nose, affixed a ‘handlebar’ moustache and side whiskers with spirit gum and gave myself a slightly more ample, and, I hoped, prosperous looking figure with some padding. I keep a range of spurious visiting cards and found one in the name of “Doctor Shaw Higgins - F.R.C.S.” and hailed a cab to take me to the London Hospital. The cabby left me about a block away and adopting a pompous posture I sauntered to the porticoed front door. It was no difficult task to bluff my way to the chemistry laboratories on the pretext of replicating an analysis I had previously undertaken at Bart’s of certain blood samples which I had in a Gladstone bag.
“My name is Dr Shaw Higgins,” said I, presenting my card. “I have been conducting research at Saint Bartholomew’s on a test which I confidently expect will supersede the old guaiacum test. Some question has been expressed in certain circles and I should like to conduct similar analysis here.”
“Certainly,” came the reply. “I shall see that one of the junior doctors shows you to the laboratory.”
I was duly escorted to the lab and, thanking the young doctor, I set about looking busy with vials and test tubes while unobtrusively observing Jekyll. He was earnestly occupied filtering a greenish liquid into a glass beaker. He then dipped a wooden tongue depressor into the vial and proceeded to taste it with the tip of his tongue. He shuddered involuntarily and made a few hasty pencil notes. I waited a few moments and then walked over, confident that my disguise would stand close scrutiny. Continuing the pompous pose that had gained me entry I introduced myself.
“Doctor Shaw Higgins. I am working on a new blood test. Mark well the term “Shaw Higgins Test”, it will one day soon be a standard in our profession. May I ask what you are working on?”
“You may not,” said he. “My research is my own business. Good day, sir!”
With this curt dismissal he packed up his accoutrements into his medical bag and walked to the sink to wash his hands. I had just enough time to surreptitiously remove the next blank sheet from the notepad he had been working on, and I memorised the odd assortment of chemical bottles he had been working on before he made his disgruntled exit. Then, allowing Jekyll enough time to clear the building and pausing just long enough to remove my makeup in the hospital lavatory, I departed myself.
Returning by cab to 221 Baker Street I mounted the stairs and with a brief greeting to Jekyll replaced my Gladstone and taking an innocuous volume by Eckermann on the religions of the West Indies settled into the basket chair. After about three quarters of an hour Mrs Hudson knocked on the door with a pair of partridges for supper which we ate in comparative silence. I made a couple of token efforts at conversation to maintain my façade of a harmless eccentric with a preoccupation with criminal studies but met with little response from Jekyll. After lingering a while over my coffee I excused myself and retired to my room. I still sought the elusive half-memory, but neither tobacco nor quiet contemplation illuminated it.
The next day provided progress as I was asked to return to Scotland Yard and rejoined Newcomen to interview the servant girl who had been witness to the murder of Sir Danvers Carew. She gave her name as Molly Riley and explained that while walking home late one night she had seen the attack.
“He was an ’orrible little man,” she said. “Quite turned my blood cold just to look at ’im.”
“You describe him as ‘little’. How tall would you say he was?”
“No taller ’an me,” she replied, and she would have been barely five feet in height.
“ ’Orribly ugly too,” she continued, “like some kind of wicked gnome.”
“And of what age?” I asked.
“Youngish. Five an’ twenty p’raps.”
Inspector Newcomen summoned a police sketch artist but despite her best efforts Miss Riley seemed curiously unable to describe the man she had seen in any specific detail despite saying that his “ ’orrid face” filled her nightmares. There seemed little point in continuing the interview further.
“At least she should be able to identify the rogue if only we can find him,” said Newcomen as we parted.
In the cab back to Baker Street the nagging memory that had been bothering me at last took proper form. It is my practice to docket references in newspapers and journals to criminal activities that I might need to refer to in future. The girl’s description was strongly reminiscent of a report which I had noted a year earlier of a youthful female who was trampled by a young man in Cavendish Place. The assailant simply walked right over the young girl, who had been rolling a hoop, rather than deviate from his path. Beyond the physical description there also seemed the implication that this strange young man possessed an ungovernable temper.
I expected Jekyll to be out when I returned home but found him on the chaise longue cradling his forehead.
“You look unwell, Jekyll,” said I.
“Yes…I am rather. Besides, I am expecting my friend Lanyon momentarily.”
I politely excused myself to allow him exclusive use of the parlour and retired to my bedroom where I prepared to eavesdrop using an empty tumbler pressed to the wall as an ear trumpet. I hardly needed to have done so, for after his arrival Dr Lanyon’s voice became quite loud and heated.
“You know I considered your theories preposterous and your experiments upon yourself positively dangerous!” said he.
Dr Jekyll seemed unmoved.
“You made your feelings perfectly clear.”
“And now,” continued Lanyon. “Utterson tells me you have altered your will to make some total stranger heir to your not inconsiderable assets. Have you taken leave of your senses, man?”
“Mr Hyde is an old acquaintance,” replied Jekyll, in tones of reason, “and he has my complete confidence.”
The next comments were then delivered by Jekyll in a tone of utter coldness. “It is none of your concern nor Utterson’s. I’d thank you both to keep out of my affairs.”
I heard Lanyon gasp.
“Good day to you, Hastie,” said Jekyll, unmistakeably dismissing Lanyon. I could make out Dr Lanyon sputtering unintelligibly followed by the sound of the door being firmly shut.
I allowed half an hour during which time I took the unused top page I had taken from Jekyll’s note book and by gently rubbing a soft-leaded pencil across the impressions I was able to make out some of Jekyll’s words, “…refined solution…why disparate personalities exist…side by side…turn back…” I pondered on these tantalising snippets until I heard Dr Jekyll’s tread mounting the steps to his bedroom. I gave him a further five minutes before returning to the sitting-room to consult my legal directory. There was only one Utterson, J. G. of that ilk, and his practice was in Gaunt Street.
Once again I employed my talent for imposture. Disguised as a cleric I approached Utterson on the pretext of wishing to consult him about a client of his, a Mr Hyde, whom I wished to thank for a good deed. Utterson explained to me that Edward Hyde was not a client of his but that he was not at liberty to reveal his address. It was obviously absurd to expect Utterson to divulge the contents of Jekyll’s will or why he had chosen someone like Hyde as his heir but now I had Mr Hyde’s forename; “Edward”: Whatever secret Jekyll was keeping or how it related to the mysterious Mr Hyde I was at least making some progress. But as I left Utterson he muttered Hyde’s name, and added a phrase that absolutely startled me, and I realized the visit had delivered far more than incremental progress.
“Little gargoyle!”
My concerns about my fellow tenant’s behaviour were secondary to my investigation into the Carew murder, yet now my instincts were increasingly leading me to wonder whether there might not be some connection between the two matters.
I resolved to telegraph Newcomen to ask whether the Yard had any record of Edward Hyde. The reply came back that Mr Hyde of Soho had been named as a suspect in the Carew murder case following information from lawyer Utterson. It was encouraging to have my suspicions about a link between Hyde and the Carew murder confirmed.
I consulted a Post Office directory to ascertain the Soho address of Edward Hyde, hailed a cab and made my way thither without delay. I had no trouble finding the unprepossessing two-storey house, for a milling crowd of onlookers immediately marked the spot. I paid the jarvey and leapt down. Two uniformed constables were without, one calming the crowd. I presented my card to the other and asked to see Inspector Newcomen and was shown up.
The inside of the first floor rooms could not have offered a greater contrast to the mean, shabby exterior. It was tastefully furnished with fine paper on the walls and a number of framed paintings hung from the picture rails. It seemed clear to me that Mr Hyde was a man of some culture rather at odds with the effect he had on others.
Newcomen showed me a closet in which he had found the heavy stick with which Sir Danvers had been brutally done to death. “As you can see, you were quite right about the murder weapon. And that it was broken in the attack.”
I nodded my appreciation of the implied compliment to my powers and asked the Inspector how Utterson had been able to direct them to Hyde’s abode.
“Utterson, who is a respected Prosecutor with whom the Yard has had frequent dealings, had reason to suspect this Hyde of being a blackmailer in consequence of past dealings they’d had. The description of both Hyde and the stick used to murder Carew led Utterson to contact us.”
“I see.”
“A number of Hyde’s papers have been found burnt in the fireplace. We found the butt of a green chequebook…”
“And a few charred corners of letters in Hyde’s hand,” I observed.
“We looked at those but there’s not enough there to make any sense.”
“There would also seem to be the remnants of some publications of a rather lewd nature.”
“Very racy stuff from what we can make out. There’s a call for these from among the servant classes.”
And not only among the servant classes, I thought.
“Is there anything to indicate this Hyde worked as a servant?”
“We have no notion as to his employment.”
I investigated the rooms further, finding nothing of note save some medicinal bottles and a jar of powder I recognised as cocaine. I suggested to Newcomen that he might find it worth his while to have the contents of the bottles analysed.
“You mean if we find out what ailments Hyde suffered from it might help us to trace him?”
“Something of the sort.”
There being little more for me to do, I thanked Newcomen and returned to Baker Street.
I have made a study of graphology and am guilty of a monograph on the topic. I took out the notepad sheet with the impressions of Jekyll’s writing and recalled the charred remnants Newcomen had showed me of Hyde’s script. There was a marked similarity between the two, notably in the extended tail of the letters ‘y’ and ‘k’ and the construction of the lower case ‘x’.
I mused as to whether both Jekyll and Hyde shared the same teacher or even more likely, given their apparent ages, they could possibly be father and son despite the lack of physical resemblance. Could this then account for the secrecy Jekyll maintained about the other man to his friends? Worse, was Mr Hyde mentally ill? This might explain his reputed violent behaviour. I strongly suspected that the solution to the Sir Danvers Carew matter would lead me to also resolving the strange case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.
The next morning, again without eating breakfast, Jekyll left early. Leaving a note to Mrs Hudson apologising for the uneaten meals I set out after Jekyll. I soon spied him a short distance in front of me so I slowed down, allowing me to duck out of sight should he look around, but he seemed so single-minded that he never once glanced behind. It had snowed overnight so following his footprints was simplicity itself. Jekyll soon turned aside from the thoroughfare and took to the laneways and alleys. Following his footprints I became aware of a gradual change in his gait. His stride grew shorter and his footprints became more splayed; it appeared Jekyll might be feeling ill.
Another change in his footprints was more inexplicable. They seemed to grow shallower, although a quick peek over my shoulder showed no similar effect on my own. I was in the process of reasoning a cause for this effect, as I turned a corner into a courtyard, and I was stopped in my very tracks by the sight, not of Dr Jekyll—of whose foot prints I did not believe I had once lost sight—but of a small, misshapen man who could only be the mysterious Mr Hyde.
He sat, his head slumped in hirsute hands, his clothes oversized and loose on his diminutive frame. I could only conclude that I had somehow lost track of Jekyll, perhaps when he had turned aside from the main road, but perhaps Jekyll had been meaning to meet this other individual. Hyde’s odd appearance was likely due to his being unable to return to his rooms in Soho; he had been compelled to steal the clothing of someone taller.
Be that as it may, if this were indeed Hyde, then it behoved me to hold him for the police. I walked over to the little man and said, “Edward Hyde?” He looked up in surprise, then his eyes narrowed. “I have reason to believe, Mr Hyde, that you are sought by the police. I propose to hold you until the constabulary arrive.”
I always carry a police whistle and I gave a short blast but before I could give a second Hyde sprang at me with a speed for which should not have given him credit.
But that was nothing compared to his unexpected strength. I am no weakling and an amateur pugilist but Hyde knocked me off my feet with little effort. He aimed a kick at my head but my reflexes were quicker than those of the aging Carew had been and I just dodged his boot. I was grateful that he no longer had a heavy stick for though I am accomplished in singlestick I would still have been hard pressed to hold my own.
In any event, the blast of my whistle had brought a pair of constables with truncheons drawn and Hyde took to his heels. One of the constables took off after the shrunken brute but the other stopped to check that I was unharmed.
“After him!” I bellowed. “He is wanted for the Carew killing!” as I struggled to right myself on the snowy footpath.
The second constable took off after the first and I eventually was on my feet and forging ahead when the constable reappeared supporting his fellow who was now without his helmet and bleeding from a wound in his scalp. Winded though I was, I set off in pursuit of Hyde but lost his trail when it rejoined the High Street. He had vanished.
Somewhat dispirited I returned home—after pausing for a small brandy at the first hostelry I found—to find Jekyll in the parlour; looking pale and a little dishevelled.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“I have had bad news,” said he. “That friend of mine, who visited earlier, Lanyon, is dead. His heart suddenly failed him. Some shock triggered it.”
I offered my condolences but Jekyll waved them aside.
“I must see Utterson,” said he, more to himself than to me and walked out the door.
This was possibly my best chance to answer all the questions surrounding Jekyll. I had no time to adopt a disguise so I clad myself in as anonymous an outfit as I could find, grabbed a scarf of neutral hue and tied the flaps of my travelling cap over my ears to obscure my features. Jekyll was hailing a cab. “Gaunt Street,” he called to the driver. I have trained myself to perch on the back of a Hansom cab and this I did, jumping down before the cab pulled up.
Stepping into a doorway I wrapped the scarf around my lower face, it still being wintry though the snow had stopped. I could not use impersonation to trick my way into Utterson’s office as I had done on my previous visit so I trusted that my own card would be sufficient for me to at least gain entry.
Utterson’s clerk showed me to a small antechamber outside his office. I could see Jekyll’s shadow pacing to and fro and could make out snatches of what Jekyll was saying, for his agitated state had caused him to raise his voice. Utterson seemed to be attempting to placate the doctor. “A letter? What letter?” cried Jekyll. Then spoke Utterson again to which Jekyll responded in tones of greater reason.
“My death or disappearance? What did Hastie mean by that…I know I made clear in my will…”
Another pause followed, after which Jekyll’s voice concluded “Goodbye, Gabe. I doubt that we shall meet again.”
I held a newspaper to obscure my face though Jekyll, when he emerged, was so distraught that he gave me no heed. I waited as long as I could lest he turn on the stairs and see me, and hurried down the steps, taking them two at a time, but Jekyll was already off in a cab this time and I was not close enough behind him to jump aboard and cling on the rear of the vehicle as I had before.
The frustration of the moment was punctuated by a newspaper boy crying “Carew killer eludes police!”
My best course seemed to be to return to Baker Street post haste, so I hailed a hansom. In the cab I had the opportunity to try assembling the various pieces of the puzzle, though the resulting picture seemed to defy all reason. It was clear that Jekyll had been doing experiments upon himself. I have done so myself on occasion but only when I was fairly confident of the outcome. Henry Jekyll seemed to have no such certainty but rather was using himself as a human lab rat. His incredible motive appeared to be the goal of attempting to take the conflicting tendencies in all men for good and evil, for virtue and vice and to isolate in his own body all that was noble and selfless and to confine all that is licentious and vicious in his associate, the young Edward Hyde. Yet how could he treat the young fellow in such a way if he himself embodied nobility? Such behaviour was selfishness itself.
My cab pulled up outside number 221B just as the cab that had been Jekyll’s drew away. I tossed the cabby some coins and rushed inside. “Jekyll!” I called, “Jekyll!” as I mounted the stairs but halfway up I encountered Mrs Hudson coming down.
“Dr Jekyll’s just gone to your rooms,” said she. “I trust you’ll both be dining tonight—”
I worked my way around the landlady as gently yet swiftly as I could and hurried to our rooms. Jekyll was not in the parlour but I could hear sounds coming from his bedroom.
“Jekyll!” I called. “I must talk with you, Jekyll!”
“Not now, Holmes,” came the voice of Henry Jekyll.
“Jekyll, this is urgent,” I persisted.
“Go away!” he countered.
“Jekyll,” said I. “I know about Hyde.”
There was silence and, to be frank, I was by no means sure in my own mind the exact nature of the relationship between Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Again there was silence for several moments and then there came a guttural rasping hiss. “Go away!”
I tried the door to Jekyll’s room again but it was locked.
“Mrs Hudson!” I called downstairs. “I need your key to Dr Jekyll’s room.”
While she took out her keys I grabbed my singlestick.
“Is something the matter?” called the landlady.
“Now, please, Mrs Hudson!”
Mrs Hudson duly produced the duplicate key and waited, peering in, partly curious and partly concerned.
I unlocked the door and looked inside. The room was in darkness for Jekyll had not lit the lamp. The strange voice that had issued from the room told me Jekyll was not alone.
“Mrs Hudson,” I said. “Send someone for a policeman.”
“What?!” said the poor lady, more than a little startled.
“Now, Mrs Hudson!”
I gripped the stick and stepped into Jekyll’s room. My senses heightened I peered around the room for the two men for it seemed clear that Edward Hyde had somehow gained access to our rooms and had been waiting for Jekyll. I could just discern the sound of breathing. It was measured and calm.
The sound of an intake of breath gave me the split second I needed to block the blow that came swinging at me. My stick and the cudgel clashed together with a resounding ‘thwack’. My height gave me an advantage for Hyde had aimed his initial blow at my skull. I knew his second would be a low blow and so it was. My eyes were now accustomed to the darkness and I could just make out the diminutive figure of Hyde. He swung a blow at my knee but I avoided it and simultaneously aimed a sharp direct thrust to Hyde’s breastbone. A hissing exhalation told me I had succeeded. We traded blows and counter blows, Hyde’s reactions seemed somewhat hampered on occasions and at one point I heard the sound of fabric tearing leading me to deduce that his clothing was somehow hindering him. Our contest was as much a question of strategy and tactics since I could not match my opponent’s ferocious strength. As his fury grew his attacks became less considered and it increasingly became a contest between brute strength and intellect. Hyde’s growls became increasingly animalistic until I landed blow upon his head which I followed instantly with a sharp jab aimed at his jawbone.
I heard his cudgel strike the floor. A gargling, rasping sound however told me that I had instead struck him in the throat. Then all was silent. I stepped back and pushed open the door allowing the light from the hallway to flood the room.
It was not the sudden, brighter light that caused me to blink but disbelief. I had expected to see Henry Jekyll behind Hyde in the room but there was only the one prone body on the floor. The sole body on the carpet was that of Mr Hyde: Clad in Jekyll’s suit! Of Dr Jekyll there was no trace! I searched to be sure.
Jekyll could only have escaped out the window. Yet a quick check showed the window was securely latched, so clearly he had exited and his friend, whom he had lent clothing to again, I realized, had latched the window behind him. I kept a close eye on the prone Hyde, wary lest the powerful man stir, but I already thought this was beyond him.
I could hear outside the sound of the policeman arriving with the boy in buttons. Mrs Hudson was tearfully telling them that I had been attacked by Dr Jekyll. He entered and we both looked at Hyde’s still figure with greater scrutiny, now I was no longer fearful of being sprung at alone.
“This man is dead,” said the policeman.
“Yes,” I replied. “He attacked me with that cudgel.”
“Is this that Jekyll bloke?”
I did not answer immediately but advised the bobby to send for Inspector Newcomen.
“Tell him this is the man sought for the murder of Sir Edmund Carew.”
The policeman’s eyes grew wide. “Yes, sir,” said he and rushed out.
While I awaited the Inspector I asked Mrs Hudson to make us both a cup of coffee.
I turned the afternoon’s events over in my mind attempting to make sense of an irrational situation. I had been only moments behind Jekyll. Although Mrs Hudson was already accustomed to my strange and diverse clients she had said nothing of admitting so bizarre a figure as Hyde. And what in the world had become of Jekyll?
In a flight of imagining induced by narcotics one might even conjecture whether Jekyll and Hyde might have been one and the same, but such a preposterous premise flies in the face of every principle of scientific observation and rationality upon which I have built my life. I dismissed the idea as beyond fanciful. It was nothing less than insane. Yet there was some sort of relationship between the two men that was eluding me, and discovering such truths was my very vocation.
For the first time in my life I found myself utterly perplexed. And if it takes me the rest of that life I will solve the strange case of Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hyde!
Literary agent’s postscript
It is a matter of public record that Mr Sherlock Holmes failed to solve to his satisfaction the riddle of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde despite grappling with the problem for many years. He eventually filed it away as “insoluble”.