THE MAN IN THE LABORATORY
As is typical for London, the spring of 1885 was heralded by days of cold and bluster which were every bit as severe as anything which the long winter had offered. Icy gales howled down deserted streets, whimpered round chimneys and beneath cornices, cast great handfuls of snow and freezing rain rattling against windowpanes thick with frost. Wisps of greasy brown fog clung to the gas lamps as if holding on lest they be torn asunder by the relentless wind. The streets themselves glistened beneath a sheen of ice, and what little traffic there was made less than snails’ progress upon the slick surface. Like almost everyone else in the besieged city, Holmes and I were content to remain prisoners in our own home, engaged in sedentary pursuits and drawing comfort from our own little hearth whilst the elements raged without. The weather was of little consequence, however, as for two months my fellow-lodger had scarcely stirred from his armchair before the fire save to dine and replenish his supply of shag, so engrossed was he in the study of that ponderous stack of reading material which he had brought with him from Edinburgh. He read rapidly, finishing an average of a volume a day, then casting it aside to reach for another from atop the pile. In no time at all the floor round his feet became a litter of discarded books, some of which he returned to on occasion in order to check some point which he either had forgotten or wished to confirm with what he had just read. By the beginning of March our sitting-room had begun to resemble Professor Armbruster’s cluttered study.
The extent of his immersion may be measured by the fact that he barely commented when, less than a fortnight after our return from Scotland, Dr. Hastie Lanyon’s obituary appeared in all of the newspapers. Death was attributed to ‘overwork and a weakened constitution.’ His own prediction regarding his life expectancy had come true almost to the day. For Holmes, however, he had become a non-entity the moment he ceased to play a crucial role in the problem upon which we were engaged.
Thus undistracted, I succeeded in putting together a satisfactory first draft of those events which had led to the solution of the Lauriston Gardens mystery and began the laborious process of translating it into acceptable English. I expended several bottles of ink and tossed away something in excess of a ream of foolscap during this stage of the project, much to the chagrin of Mrs. Hudson, whose task it was to empty our trash baskets each morning and afternoon. I confess that Holmes and I were too busy to take much notice of her complaints.
There were times, however, as upon the Ides of March, when even such a sedentary soul as I grew alarmed at my friend’s immobility and demanded that he step out and take the air, if only for an hour. Rather than suffer further remonstration, on this particular morning Holmes climbed out from beneath his books and girded himself to face the weather, muttering something about visiting his favourite chemists’ shops as he went out the door. I did not see him again for the better part of the day, and when as the supper hour was approaching he re-appeared bearing his new acquisitions wrapped in bundles beneath his arm, he was in such visibly good spirits that I congratulated myself upon the wisdom of my advice, until he told me the reason for his cheer.
‘You are aware, Watson, of my observations upon the foolhardy human habit of attempting to reason without sufficient data,’ he said as he divested himself of headgear and wrap. ‘I am therefore placing myself in an embarrassing position by calling upon you to guess whom I encountered today at Maw & Sons.’
‘I cannot think,’ said I.
‘Our friend Poole.’
‘Jekyll’s butler! Whatever was he after in a chemist’s?’
‘Something for his master, without doubt. He was unsuccessful, as Maw informed him in no uncertain terms that Jekyll himself had taken the last of it from his shelf some months ago. I overheard this reply as I was coming in. Poole seemed greatly troubled on his way out and would have walked right on past me had I not called his name. He would not tell me what he was about. Orders from his master, I warrant, though I got the distinct impression that he knew little more about the business than I. I attempted to question Maw after he left, but that worthy gentleman had overheard us and did not deem it advisable to explain the nature of the order. That is of little consequence, however.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Ah, you must not ask me that just yet.’ He unwrapped his parcels — they contained the usual miscellany of bottles, phials, and packets of substances beyond my ken — and put them away amongst shelves above his chemical table. ‘Be satisfied to know that this latest development has a made-to-order place in the theory that I am formulating. All that remains is for me to satisfy myself that such things are possible.’ And with that he returned to his studies.
We were not without visitors during this period. I find it recorded in my notebook that we were blessed no fewer than seven times with the presence of Inspector Newcomen of Scotland Yard, and that upon each occasion he had departed in an even blacker humour than that in which he had arrived. The Inspector had gotten it into his head that Holmes was doing nothing to earn whatever fee he was charging the British Empire for his services in the Hyde case (he had, in fact, offered them free of charge), and finding the unofficial detective curled up in an armchair with a book across his knees each time he came to call did little to allay his suspicions. Since a scene was inevitable, I learnt to dread his visits much as an impoverished tenant fears the approaching footsteps of his landlord.
It was the evening of my fellow-tenant’s return from Maw & Sons when the Inspector stepped into the house just as Mrs. Hudson had been preparing to retire. She ushered him into our chambers and, after asking us to lock up when our visitor had left, withdrew to her own quarters. Holmes had a short time before flung down a scientific tract which he had finished reading and begun studying a half-century-old edition of Faust in the original German. Newcomen shot him a contemptuous glance as he handed me his billycock and shining waterproof.
‘I would expect more action from your brother Mycroft,’ he sneered. ‘I suppose that you are going to tell me that reading some hoary old epic will show you some clue to the whereabouts of Edward Hyde.’
‘I will not if you do not wish me to do so,’ said Holmes without looking up.
The Inspector slouched into the seat opposite him. ‘All right, tell me what you have found.’
‘A very interesting passage. It occurs in the Prologue, wherein the Lord speaks to Mephistopheles. I shall attempt to translate: “A good man, through obscurest aspiration, has still an instinct of the one true way”.’
‘Fascinating.’ Newcomen lit a cigar and tossed down the match with a savage gesture. ‘Now tell me what it means.’
‘Simply defined, it is an expression of the unsinkable nobility of Man.’
‘An admirable premise, but what has it to do with tracking down a murderer?’
Holmes shrugged. ‘Who can say? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. But I believe that Watson will agree with me that the statement suits a man who is known to both of us.’
‘Bah!’ The Inspector sprang to his feet and began pacing the room in stiff strides, fists thrust deep in his trouser-pockets. ‘All of London lies naked at the feet of a madman and you persist in making up riddles which no-one can answer. More than once you have made reference to this other man, and yet when I ask you who it is you refuse to tell me. If you are withholding evidence in this case I shall see you in the dock, no matter how high your authority.’
‘A man’s theories are his own, Inspector. I have not divulged mine only because it is as yet untested. Rest assured that when it bears fruit you will be the first to know.’
‘How long must I wait? The newspapers are screaming for my badge and the Commissioner is beginning to listen. If something solid does not turn up soon I shall find myself back in uniform, patrolling the blackest alleys in the East End. I beg of you, Mr. Holmes, give me something to go on.’ Gone was the bullying symbol of authority of a few moments before, replaced by a supplicant. Desperation shone in his normally cold grey eyes. He chewed the ends of his moustache.
Holmes looked up at him for the first time. His expression was sympathetic. ‘That is beyond my power, Inspector.’ said he. Newcomen’s hopeful face fell in. ‘I can, however, give you my word that by the end of this month there will be no more mystery. If we are fortunate, the man whom you seek will be in the hands of justice shortly thereafter. Beyond that I promise nothing.’
‘It is a vague promise,’ said the other. But there was new hope in his voice.
‘It is vague merely because I cannot foretell upcoming events. I have, as I said, formulated a theory which fits all of the facts. I could not have done so but for the aid of these books. But it is a fanciful theory, and I fear that once you learn of it you will think me mad. I have yet to be convinced of it myself. If, however, I am correct, then the solution far exceeds the boundaries of simple domestic crime, and you and I may with some confidence expect to see our names included in the work of some ambitious historian before our span has ended. It may be that we have stumbled onto a stage more vast than any upon which ever we have performed. The very possibilities steal my breath away.’
Newcomen eyed him curiously. ‘If I had not heard what I have about you from people whose opinions I respect, I would accuse you of indulging in idle bombast.’
‘I have my faults — no-one knows that better than Dr. Watson — but idleness is not amongst them. I waste neither words nor actions.’
‘Of the latter I have no doubt’ The Inspector snatched his hat and waterproof from the hook upon which they were hung and donned them. ‘The end of the month, then,’ said he, grasping the doorknob. ‘I shall hold you to that.’ He went out, slamming the door behind him. I heard his waterproof rustling all the way down the stairs, followed by the bang of the front door. Holmes glanced at the clock upon the mantelpiece, yawned, and leant forward to knock out his pipe upon the grate.
‘Bedtime, Watson,’ said he, laying aside Faust. ‘Be good enough to go downstairs and lock up whilst I snatch a few minutes with my Stradivarius. Otherwise I shall dream of Goethe’s Hell all night through.’ He made a long arm and lifted his violin and bow out of their case.
The strains of something by Liszt followed me as I set about securing the house for the night, and continued as I came back upstairs and then mounted the flight to my own bedroom. By the time I was beneath the counterpane, however, he had exchanged the soaring notes of the Hungarian composer for some eerily beautiful melody which put me in mind of gypsies swaying about a campfire in some lonely moonlit glade. I could not identify it, which may or may not have meant that he was playing some composition of his own. I drifted off with it singing about my ears.
I cannot say how long I had been asleep when I woke to find my friend’s spare figure standing over me, but it could not have been too great a time, for it was still dark out and the beam of moonlight which fell upon him from the window had not noticeably shifted its position since my retiring. He was dressed in his Inverness and ear-flapped cap. I came alert all of a sudden, for that taut face and those glistening eyes could mean only one thing. I sat up, blinking.
‘Holmes, what is it?’
‘There is no time to explain, Watson,’ said he. His voice held that strident note which went hand-in-hand with the volcanic action of his brain and body when the dénouement was at hand. ‘Get up and get dressed if you care to accompany me, whilst I hail us a cab. If I am right there is not a second to be lost.’ He turned away without waiting for an answer. ‘And bring your revolver!’ he shouted on his way downstairs.
Five minutes later we were sharing a hansom on its way east at breakneck speed over the treacherous street surface, rocking and fishtailing as we took the corners.
‘Where are we bound this time?’ I was forced to shout to make myself heard over the clatter of hooves, and to hold onto my hat with one hand and the side of the conveyance with the other. The air was bitingly cold.
‘Jekyll’s house,’ snapped my companion, now little more than a keen silhouette in the flashing illumination of the racing gas lamps. The cords in his lean neck stood out like piano wire. ‘No fool was ever so blind as I have been tonight. I pray that we are not too late.’
For all our haste, as we turned into Jekyll’s street we nearly collided with a hansom which was flying in the opposite direction at the same harrowing rate. As it thundered past, the light from the corner gas lamp fell full upon the pale, drawn features of its elderly occupant, in whose anxious expression there was such a singularity of purpose that I doubted he was even aware of the accident which had been so narrowly averted.
‘Holmes!’ I cried as the cabs separated. ‘That was Poole, Jekyll’s butler!’
He nodded curtly but said nothing. His countenance was grimmer than ever.
Every light in Jekyll’s house was burning when we swung round the corner and came to a bouncing halt on the by-street side. Holmes sprang from the cab.
‘It is as I feared, Watson; the worst has happened.’ He hastened across the kerb and down the steps to the door which led into the theatre. A tug at the knob confirmed that the door was locked. He cursed. ‘I came away without my burglar’s kit! I’ll need your good shoulder, Watson.’
Together we braced ourselves before the door, strongest shoulders foremost.
‘On the count of three,’ Holmes directed. ‘One, two, three!’
We struck simultaneously. Pain shot through me. The door creaked in its casing; no more.
‘Again. One, two, three!’
This time the planks bounced and a noise like a pistol-shot rang out. Upon examination in the lamplight, it developed that a portion of the wood round the rusted lock had split in a large semi-circular fissure.
‘One more time, Watson. One, two, three!’
The door sprang open with a splattering crack and we stumbled into the threatre. Scrambling to maintain our balance, we let our momentum carry us forward down the corridor, where in the gloom I perceived the outline of a vague grey figure standing at the nether end. At our entrance it let out a strangled cry, wheeled, and bounded monkey-fashion up the flight of steps which led to the red baize door of the doctor’s laboratory.
‘After him!’ Holmes cried.
During my ball-playing days at Blackheath I had won the admiration of my teammates for my speed afoot, but Holmes was several strides ahead of me as he took the steps two at a time upon the heels of our quarry and seized the door just as it was being slammed shut. With great effort he succeeded in shouldering his way inside. I entered an instant later, drawing my revolver from the pocket of my coat.
I was right glad that I had done so, for in the light of the gas fixture I found myself face to face with Edward Hyde.