A Conspicious Absence

FORCED INTO UNEXPECTED detours by roadworks and bridge building, Utterson by the time he reached Gaunt Street had regained enough composure to order Poole into the drawing room.

‘There’s something I need to show to you, Poole,’ he announced in a strained voice. ‘A statement, written by your former master.’

‘By Dr. Jekyll?’ Poole asked, frowning.

‘That’s right.’

‘So you have seen him since … our meeting?’

‘What? No, no, not him. Not the impostor, for heaven’s sake. I mean a statement written by the real Henry Jekyll. A statement I collected from the dissecting rooms on that terrible night we found Hyde dead—you must remember it.’

Poole looked puzzled. ‘I recollect a document …’

‘A statement,’ said Utterson. ‘I brought it back here to read before returning to Jekyll’s home, where we summoned the police.’

Poole nodded. ‘Instructions as to property and bank accounts …’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You said the document contained instructions relating to property and bank accounts.’

Utterson nodded impatiently. ‘Yes, that’s what I said at the time. But I lied to you, Poole. I was trying to protect your master, and did not want to sully the name of a good friend.’

Poole’s brow furrowed.

‘The statement was shocking,’ Utterson explained. ‘Unspeakable. I read it just two or three times, yet it has festered in my mind ever since. And now, provided you feel capable of taking in its content, I wish to show it to you.’

‘You retained this document?’

‘In my safe upstairs. With a corroborating statement by Hastie Lanyon, which you must also read.’

‘If you insist, sir.’

‘It is not a matter of insisting. You must want to know the truth. And keep in mind you will very probably be appalled. Your faith in many things will be tested. But it is in your best interests, whether you know it or not. Are you ready?’

‘I suppose so, sir.’

Utterson ascended the stairs to his business room, where he opened his safe—with unexpected difficulty—and reached for the innermost compartment. He felt around but the compartment seemed empty. He leaned in for a closer examination. No statements. He foraged in some other compartments, opened a few folders, but nothing. A wave of panic surged through him and slowly ebbed.

There was no need to be alarmed. The statements were in the safe somewhere, they had to be. He vividly remembered locking them away on that ghastly night, just as he remembered seeing them several times in the years after that.

So he searched every compartment again. He opened every box. He transferred everything to his desk—wills, deeds, keepsakes—and laid it all out. He combed through it all exhaustively. It took him close to half an hour, yet he still could find no statement by Henry Jekyll, and no corroborating narrative by Hastie Lanyon.

‘Will sir be requiring dinner?’

With a jolt Utterson became aware of his butler standing primly at the door. ‘What?’ he snapped.

‘Will sir be requiring dinner?’ Poole asked, eyebrows arched.

Utterson sensed mockery. ‘You took them, I suppose.’

‘Sir?’

‘You opened the safe and removed the statements, did you?’

‘Sir?’

‘Did he order you to do it? The impostor? Did he tell you to destroy them?’

Poole looked aggrieved. ‘Are you suggesting that I stole something from your safe, sir?’

‘Well, did you?’

‘Sir,’ the butler said, gulping, ‘you must know that I would never do such a thing. You must know that I could never do such a thing.’

‘Oh yes?’ Utterson said, but could not challenge Poole’s manifest sincerity. ‘Well, the fact remains that this safe has been broken into. And some very important documents have been removed. There is no doubt about it, none at all. So what explanation can there be?’

The butler tried to be helpful. ‘Is it not possible,’ he suggested, ‘that you removed the documents yourself?’

‘Of course not!’ Utterson said. ‘Do you think I would not remember if I had?’ Then a thought occurred to him. ‘Last night,’ he said, ‘last night … at the impostor’s dinner, I mentioned the statements … I even mentioned that they were safely stored. And now that I think of it … yes, that’s right’—he looked at Poole—‘you said there were noises in the house last night, did you not?’

‘I heard you moving about, sir.’

‘Yes, but what makes you think it was me? Did you see me? Did you actually see me?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then why would it be me? I was sleeping like a bear. So why would I be moving around the house?’

‘You might have been sleepwalking, sir.’

‘Sleepwalking?’

‘You’ve done it before, sir.’

‘Sleepwalk! Me?’

‘Aye, sir. You often walk around the house at night. You crash into walls and throw things on the floor, and mumble oaths.’

‘I throw things!’

‘In your sleep, sir.’

Utterson felt chilled. ‘And how long has this been going on?’

‘Since as long as I’ve been here.’

‘And why have you never bothered to mention it before?’

‘I thought it might embarrass you, sir.’

‘Embarrass me!’ Utterson felt stricken. ‘But …’

But he was tongue-tied.

‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ Poole ventured, ‘but do you think that might be the explanation? That you sleepwalked into the business room and opened the safe, and disposed of the documents in a daze?’

‘Yes …’ Utterson could see that Poole was offering a charitable solution, but under the circumstances it would have to suffice. ‘Yes, that must be it. Thank you, Poole, thank you. You may continue preparing dinner.’

He collected all his papers and stuffed them back into his safe, then closed the door tightly and keyed the locks. But all the time he was wondering how he could possibly be certain of anything, if he was no longer certain of himself.