Day Two, Morning

You’ll see.

I bang awake, the words ringing. A dream—people trampling me into the muck, Mrs. Deaker kneeling beside me, pushing my face into the ooze, whispering. I sit up and look around: I’m on the floor by the stove, where I must have curled up to sleep, leaving the old woman and her flower frozen in the past. Daylight fills the dusty windows. I lie back on the floorboards, gasping. A cobweb is strung between the bench and the underbelly of the walnut table. With both hands I cover my face and scratch my bristly beard, then give myself a hard smack. Get up.

On my feet, I grit my teeth and arch my spine till there’s a nice fat pop from the lumbar vertebrae. Then I grab the edges of the table and hunker down to crack my knees. The body stiffens up more every day, the muscles bowing my spine, pulling my pelvis askew. Hyde the Hunchback. I limp toward the glazed press, the jug of ethanol on the shelf above it. But as I pass the little writing desk, my eye falls on the envelope propped against the lamp. The line of ink engraved on its face: Gabriel John Utterson.

I do not like this thing. The way it just sits there, mocking me with its immunity, so certain I won’t burn it or shred it. How did Jekyll know I wouldn’t? I don’t know that I could even touch it. My fingers tingle at the thought, as if the paper carries the trace of some contagion, of Jekyll’s insanity. Yet insane as he was, he still knew I would obey him in this last command, to leave his confession as it lies. How I long to prove him wrong! To pick the thing up and slowly, painstakingly rip it into scraps . . .

My lower eyelid starts to twitch, an erratic tapping under the skin—I touch it with my fingertips, alarmed.

Just as quickly, it stops.

I edge away from the desk. Nothing to be frightened of. There is nothing in that envelope but desperate lies that Utterson will not believe. He knows far too much to be taken in by Jekyll’s incomplete account. He must have nearly all the pieces by now, enough to get a rough idea at least. Has he seen it yet? The whole picture—the truth?

He surprised me, Utterson did. In spite of my chariness of the man, I’d still underestimated him, the power of his curiosity. He’d said he wanted to meet me—it was necessary that he meet me. Yet I never thought he would do what he did. How long had he been watching the Castle Street door? How many nights? He knows how to wait, Utterson does. Even now, with the puzzle all assembled before him, and that envelope sending out its siren song, he waits for Poole to come and beg his help. Today? Maybe not. But tomorrow? Day after? How much longer will they let me live like this?

 

Utterson’s perseverance paid off not long after my visit to Jeannie’s flat. I was almost convinced she wouldn’t show at the Pig and Gibbet the following night, convinced I had scared her off. But to the Pig she came, and when I woke early the next morning, for the first time, I found her still in my bed, her brow intently furrowed in sleep. In the chill light her skin was like ivory, inset with tiny gemlike pimples on her chin and forehead. I had never seen her in such sober, meticulous detail, inches away, breathing softly on my face. A strand of hair was caught at the edge of her mouth, and delicately I plucked it free and placed it behind her ear. One agate eye flickered open and fixed upon me. I half expected her to recoil, to sit up in a hurry and grab her clothes. Instead, her eyelid dipped shut again, and she smacked her mouth and sleepily mumbled, G’morning.

A day or two later on my rambles I passed a chic shop window with a pink dress displayed on a smallish wooden mannequin. It had white puffy sleeves and lacy embroidering around the collar and waist. I went inside and bought the thing for a whopping five pounds—for my daughter, I explained. It fit Jeannie as if tailored for her. I took her to the Hotel Grand for dinner. A three-piece orchestra performed brightly in the centre of the room like an elaborate wind-up mechanism. Jeannie had washed her wonderful hair and pinned it up; her neckline was flushed as she gazed about, trying to look unimpressed. I told the waiter it was my daughter’s birthday and he brought her a sherry-size glass for her wine, which she took down in quick, covert gulps. When the waiter dropped by to inquire how mademoiselle was enjoying the consommé, Jeannie placed her hand over mine and said, in a posh little voice, Daddy says it’s too fishy. I snorted a spoonful and started coughing, and she patted my hand and whispered to the waiter, It’s the worm, Daddy’s never been the same since In-ja. Later, she spooned up a glob of my lemon custard and when it plopped into her lap, she cried, looking down in dismay, Oh shit!

Christ, these details, these futile details.

It was the next night, or the night after that, when I returned to Castle Street. I had not intended to, I’d just been wandering aimlessly, for Jeannie had taken the evening off to spend with her sister at home. When I looked up and took stock, I realised my roaming had landed me very near Trafalgar, a few blocks south of Leicester Square. I felt a tug at my navel, a jerk of the reins, and with a shrug I turned toward Castle Street.

I came up the cobbled lane and approached the surgery block from the south rather than the north, the way I usually did. I was fishing my chain of keys from under my collar as I passed the narrow alley that led from Castle Street into Big House’s courtyard. Utterson must have been hiding in there, just inside the alleyway. I’d like to say that I stopped, nose lifted, eyes sharp, detecting some watchful presence. But in truth I divined nothing as I climbed the three encrusted steps. I sensed approaching movement below only at the last quarter-second, just before he touched my elbow and said, Mr. Hyde?

Hissing, I raised my stick to strike blind at the voice. Yet Jekyll held my arm. The nearest lamp was behind me, and from under my topper I peered out at Utterson’s grave, horsy face, its startling detail: the close-set grey eyes, the wiry chops bristling from his cheeks, the flesh-coloured mole on his long upper lip.

I stood rooted to the spot. You are Edward Hyde, Utterson said, and I found myself nodding. I am Hyde. His eyes narrowed, slightly. He could not see me, I realised. I was just a dark figure above him. I am Utterson, he said. I know who you are. What do you want? I was hoping to see Dr. Jekyll. Perhaps you might let me in? Jekyll’s not home. I see, he said, and glanced up at the windowless wall of the surgery block. Are you living here? I’ve a house of my own. Now excuse me. I turned for the door. He touched my arm again. Wait. I stopped with the key extended. What do you want?

I want to see your face.

My beard growth stiffened. My face. No, I could not show him my face, not Utterson. Yet with a riveted helplessness I was lowering the key and turning, my own hand involuntarily rising to the brim of my topper. Then I lifted it off. I stood above him, head steaming, a cold halo round my scalp where the band had indented my hair. Utterson stared up. He swallowed. Could you, he said faintly, could you step down, please? I laughed, a little hysterical. This is all you get, Utterson. Now go home. And as if released from his spell, I spun for the lock and crunched in the key.

Up in the cabinet I collapsed in a chair, shaking. What had just happened? How did he know to wait for me by that door? I felt queasy, exposed, as if a curtain had just been yanked away to reveal a busy backstage spying operation. I watched the courtyard out the window, the slim opening of the alleyway, almost expecting to see Utterson emerge leading a mob. Why had I taken off my hat? Had Jekyll made me do that? Why would he want the solicitor to see my face?

 

Jekyll sank naked onto the bench, unwrapping the rubber tourniquet from his left arm. The vein was getting hard and discoloured in the elbow crook, pocked with dried tiny punctures down the forearm. Jekyll flexed the hand open and shut as he held the left arm out against his right—that one smooth and clean, veins flowing fresh beneath the skin.

From the wardrobe he retrieved the razor and porcelain bowl, which he filled with cool water, and shaved before the mirror. The hairs pulled and crunched under the blade. Jekyll dipped a cotton ball in ethanol and smeared his raw face with the scorching stuff. Then he dressed in his own clothes, descended from the cabinet, and crossed the courtyard to the conservatory.

Poole was in the dining room, arranging silver along a cloth. Jekyll came up the two steps from the conservatory and stopped when he saw him across the table. The gas was turned down to a sepia stain. It was nearly midnight. Yet here was Poole, doing the silver. He looked up, as if surprised. Oh, sir, good evening, welcome home. Guardedly, Jekyll nodded. Evening, Poole. Up late, I see. Poole dipped his head. Yes, sir. Can I get you anything? No, no, I’m up to bed. You can catch me up in the morning. Very good, sir, Poole said, and waited until Jekyll nearly reached the far doorway before he added, Mr. Utterson called for you, sir.

Jekyll paused. Poole’s tone sounded unnatural. Oh? When was this? Just now, sir. He left perhaps ten minutes ago. Jekyll turned. Did he say what he wanted? Not really, sir, it seemed he just wanted to see you. I thought you would like to know, as he left so recently. Indeed. Past Mr. Utterson’s bedtime, I should have thought. Poole dipped his head with a trace of a smile, and then met Jekyll’s eyes. True, sir.

Jekyll was halfway down the corridor leading to the main hall when he paused again. Softly he snapped his fingers, then turned around and went back to the dining room. Poole was standing by the table, holding a fork, gazing into space. Sorry, Poole, it’s just occurred to me. Mr. Hyde plans to spend the night in the cabinet. Could you bring him back some water and wine? Don’t disturb him, just leave it on the stairs. Would you?

Poole looked down at the fork in his hand. Certainly, sir. Shall I bring Mr. Hyde some breakfast in the morning as well? No, Jekyll said, I imagine he’ll take off fairly early. Just the water and the wine.

 

Had Poole positioned himself there, in the dining room, with the silver? Had Utterson told Poole that he’d seen Mr. Hyde go in the back door of the surgery block? He’s back there right now, Utterson might’ve said. Are you aware he has a key, Poole?

Jekyll lay in the bath with a towel over his face. The question beat in the blood-warm water: How had Utterson known to wait for me by the Castle Street door? How did he know I came and went by that door? Utterson had helped Jekyll buy the house twenty years ago when he first moved to London, so he would have known about the door itself, the connection of Big House to Castle Street. Yet how could he know that I used it? He had been waiting there. Poole might possibly suspect I had access to the cabinet. But would he share this with Utterson? Who knew how much those two said to each other? They could have been exchanging notes on Mr. Hyde for weeks now.

Everything felt precarious, as if the structure of our lives had been built up too high and was starting to sway. Yet Jekyll’s veins fizzed with zest the next morning as he drew on his velvet smoking jacket and jogged downstairs and crossed the courtyard. He wrenched open the surgery-block door, and again something exploded into frantic flapping in the glass cupola high overhead. The silver tray with decanters of water and wine sat upon its step, halfway up the stairwell. Jekyll lifted the tray and carried it up to the cabinet, set it down on the table, and locked it inside.

The newspaper was still warm from Poole’s ironing when Jekyll sat down for breakfast. As Poole poured his tea, Jekyll frowned, bending close to read some small print, then flipped the page. I say, Poole, I’ve been thinking about getting some of the old gang together for supper, the way we used to. This Friday, perhaps. Would you feel up to it? Jekyll lifted his teacup and glanced into Poole’s eyes with a hint of challenge. I’m confident we could manage it, sir. Good. Then it’s settled.

Jekyll wrote out the invitations himself that afternoon. Utterson, Lanyon, three other names I dimly knew. I was awestruck by his attitude. Poole and Utterson were conspiring, and he was going to throw a party? Yet the five invitations appeared, one by one, conjured out of Father’s fountain pen. Afterward Jekyll reclined in his chair, holding a card Carew had sent several days before. Requesting the pleasure of another reception, read its sinuous line, any night of your convenience. Jekyll wagged the card by its corner.

I didn’t think Jekyll should be seeing anyone just now. We had been careless. We needed to be scaling back, securing everything before moving on—certainly not inviting the inquisitive likes of Carew into the house yet again. Jekyll could feel me twisting as he gazed out the window, tapping his knee with one finger. That tic of a smile was tugging at the edge of his lips.

Responses to his invitations all flew back the next afternoon. Five yeas to dinner Friday night. Carew simply wrote, Wednesday evening it is.

 

This time he requested a tour. You know, Carew said in the main hall, my grandfather visited this house once, a hundred years ago. He was an amateur naturalist, this young unknown Irishman. He just knocked on the door and John Hunter answered it, the great surgeon himself. My grandfather loved to talk about the giraffe in the main hall—do you know where it stood?

Jekyll led him through the ground floor, indicating all the details he had preserved from the olden days. At the dining room, Carew paused and said, And through here? The conservatory. After a moment Jekyll lifted his hand and said, Please, after you. Carew went down the two steps, and Jekyll stood in the doorway above him. In the unlit room we could see through the glass into the misty courtyard, the limestone block hulking in the northeast corner. Oh, how splendid, Carew said, the old surgical theatre. Except if I’m not mistaken there was a glass arcade connecting it to the main house, an exhibition wing? The former owner tore it down. The whole block is on the verge of collapse, in fact; I’ve been trying to rescue it. I would show you, but it’s havoc in there, with the construction. Jekyll touched the switch and the gaslight rose, and the glass wall turned into amber mirror. Ah, Carew said, how disappointing. Have any of Hunter’s preparations survived? A few. Though the majority were carted off after he died. Debts and so forth. A pity, Carew said, gazing down the length of the greenhouse room. He nodded at the wicker chairs and hanging plants at the far end. Do you mind if we sit a moment? I rather like it here.

They arranged themselves in the creaky wicker chairs. Jekyll brushed something from his knee and said, I dropped by the library and was pleased to find several issues of your psychical society’s journal. I was particularly intrigued by the case of the Gorley sisters. Yes, of course, Carew said, Agatha and Maggie. Did you have the opportunity to examine them yourself? I did, in fact, though unofficially, for it was after our report had been published. Which was unfortunate, I suppose, as my visit yielded a rather curious result. Jekyll lifted his eyebrows. You see, Carew began, the report in the journal focused primarily on the sisters’ transmission of visual images from one room to another. Maggie was the artist; she would sit in the drawing room while Agatha in the parlour would be instructed to communicate an image with her mind, which Maggie would sketch. There were some striking instances of accuracy, as you read. The omnibus prompt, for instance, resulted in a fairly indisputable rendering of an omnibus in Maggie’s sketchbook. But I wanted to increase the distance between the sisters. I wondered if their telepathic ability, if that’s indeed what it was, had a range. And I also wanted to see if the immediate atmosphere, the house itself, was somehow a facilitating factor. The sisters had grown up in the house; it was intimately familiar to them. So I prepared a number of experiments that involved removing Agatha from the house. I took her into the garden, then for a stroll around the block, and finally for a cab ride, and this is where I had my curious result. As we rode along I read a poem to her, the same poem, several times. Browning, “My Last Duchess.” Meanwhile, back at the house, Maggie was with my assistant. I’d told her not to draw but to speak aloud whatever came to her mind while I was out with her sister. My assistant would write it down. When I returned, I read the transcript. There was nothing seemingly related to the poem in what she’d said. Much of it was random imagery, things you might plausibly see on the street. I looked up and saw Maggie watching me. And then this confused look came over her, and she said, Curtain? Like a question, softly. Curtain?

Carew paused, relishing the moment. Have you read the poem “My Last Duchess”? he asked. It’s a monologue, an Italian duke is showing us a portrait of his late wife, up on the wall. And he keeps the portrait behind a curtain. No one is allowed to draw it back except he. Curtain.

Jekyll watched him, waiting. Carew smiled. Very curious, is it not? I puzzle over it still. I spent two additional days with the sisters, and no other result approached it. But for that singular instant, I tell you, it seemed as though the idea itself had leapt across the air, from one mind to another. He paused. You find the incident suspicious. Every such incident is suspicious, Jekyll said. So Maggie Gorley duped me? She somehow discovered what poem I’d read to her sister? Is that what you believe? I suppose I just believe it’s in our nature to deceive and to be taken in by deception when we desire to believe. I’ve seen too often the amazing lengths people will go to to deceive their believers. I’ve seen it too, Carew said. I’ve exposed more frauds than anyone, I assure you. But I won’t say that what the frauds pretend to conjure is false. I won’t dismiss the principle, you see, in the face of false evidence. Evidence of what? What are you trying to believe?

Carew sat back in his chair and looked off across the room. You speak of human nature. I think of it often too. I think of the human animal. This hairless primate, walking around on two feet and wearing its elaborate costume as it goes about the business of survival. We deceive each other, oh yes. Cheat, torture, kill each other, deliberately, occasionally with pleasure. Other animals live in fear and awe of us. What makes us so special? The mind. The grotesque power of the human mind. Carew turned to look at Jekyll, his eyes bright as glass. It is a ruinous mutation, this excessive intelligence. It has fooled us into imagining that we are above nature, that nature is subservient to our demands. And this arrogance will destroy us, unquestionably, unless we can learn its purpose. You see, perhaps the human mind is something more than simply the workings of a brain, of overadapted muscle matter. Perhaps it is part of something else, some larger, universal consciousness to which we are all connected. We are all one fluid mind, and have only to realise it . . . I suppose I am trying to believe in that.

The individual mind as part of an interconnected network. It’s an appealing idea. Do you imagine we shall come to this realisation collectively, as a species? It would take time, Carew said. A great deal of time. I’m not speaking of my lifetime, or any lifetime. But I can still make my contribution. If there is one person out there who can indisputably tap into this network, as you say, this flow of thoughts and experiences, then I would like to find that person. It would be a start, would it not? Jekyll shrugged. Toward what end? Another way of living, surviving? We live the way we live. We don’t change? We don’t progress? We progress, certainly. But do we change? The way we talk, the way we dress, the way we move about, yes. But does the nature of us change? Can it?

Carew shook his head. I confess, I’m surprised. From you of all people, Doctor, such cynical certainty. We are what we are. Evolution stops with us, is that it? Jekyll didn’t reply for a long, careful moment. I can say only what I said to you last time we spoke. The notion of the mind being something more, having mobility, permanence, beyond the brain matter. It’s unnecessary to my work. The mind’s function is complex enough on its own, and these additional theories—they are simply redundant. Redundant, Carew repeated. It’s redundant to even consider the possibility that people afflicted with, say, a dissociative disorder may be acting and speaking under the influence of minds beyond their own? How do you dismiss such a consideration? How did you dismiss it in the case of Mr. Verlaine, one man with three distinct personalities, all apparently inhabiting his head? I want to understand this. Truly, I do.

Jekyll exhaled a steadying breath. He had known it was coming back around to this, of course; even I had been waiting for it. He regarded the sideboard against the wall, the cut-glass decanter of sherry. Then he stood and went over to it. He poured the pale red sherry into two tiny glasses, carried them back, and gave one to Carew. One hand in his pocket and the other holding his glass, Jekyll stood next to the wicker chair pretending to admire the dangling vines and spade-shaped leaves of the hanging plant. I don’t believe that evolution stops with us. Out in the world, humans are evolving as we speak. What does it require for a thing to evolve? Unique, often harsh conditions, and the urgency to survive. Physiological mutation can take generations to develop. But a psychological mutation, an evolution of the mind. That can happen over the course of a childhood. While the mind is still shaping itself, still adapting.

Jekyll looked down into his glass, its ruby facets. He lifted it and let the vinegary sherry run to his lips. Then he drew the dram into his mouth, and swallowed. I had never seen him do this. The burn of alcohol rose to his eyes. Carew below murmured, Your health. Jekyll took Carew’s empty glass and returned to the sideboard. Emile’s mother, he said, lifting the glass stopper, died when he was ten years old. For the ten years following her death, Emile lived with his father without disturbance. The lapses into the child personality I would come to know as Pierre did not begin until he was twenty. That is, not until Monsieur Verlaine remarried and his new wife moved into the house. Jekyll handed one of the sherries to Carew, then lowered himself into the creaky chair. The mind works sometimes in life as it does in a dream. It makes substitutions, places emotion and meaning upon a substitute object. Monsieur Verlaine’s second wife was young and attractive, but otherwise different from his first wife, Emile’s mother. Yet in Emile’s mind, as it happens in a dream, here was his mother again, resurrected, or reincarnated, if you like. And there was a violent reaction. Parts of his mind, regions of memory Emile had locked away, burst open. For almost ten years Emile had trained himself to live in the front of his mind, the part that amassed new experience, absorbed itself with art, society. He had managed to lock away everything he didn’t want to remember, about his mother, his childhood. But suddenly, it was as though his mother had returned to live in the house again. And the memories returned as well.

Jekyll’s face was already warm with the wine. He turned his fresh glass by the stem. Emile’s mother, Carew said. She traumatised him, you are saying. Jekyll nodded. That’s a good word. Traumatised. Carew waited. What did she do, exactly?

Much of it seemed to be sexual in nature. She had sewn a sort of chastity belt–like contraption that she made him wear under his clothes, very tight and painful. She would wash him in the bath and hold his head under the water, insert soapy fingers into his rectum to clean him there. The boy’s father, Monsieur Verlaine, remained oblivious to what was happening, from what I could determine. The mother held the boy in fear of some horrifying threat, and the boy never spoke of it to his father. Instead, he developed alternative means of defending himself. Pierre, as the personality would come to call itself, was one of those adaptations.

What was his function? Carew asked. Jekyll turned the crystal stem between his fingers, the liquid winking. A thirst at the root of his tongue, a heady recklessness. His function was to bear the pain. The discomfort, the humiliation, to bear it when it became unbearable. He was a whipping boy. He took the punishment for the prince. Emile forced him to the front of the experience, as a buffer. And then he locked him away, for almost a decade. Until their mother returned, so it seemed. When Pierre returned too.

And the other, Carew said. He returned as well, did he not? L’inconnu. That is what you called him?

I didn’t call him that. That was the hospital board’s silly invention, and the papers picked it up. L’inconnu. No, I—I didn’t really have a name for him. He never gave himself one, nor did Emile. But he was created. The same way as Pierre. As an adaptation. Yes and no. I think he developed over the years. Accumulated. Like a dark pearl. Or a tumour. Pierre was different; he had been trapped in stasis as a child. But the other had matured in the back of Emile’s mind. Waiting, it seemed to me in retrospect, for the perfect moment to emerge.

He wanted an audience. To announce himself. The board gave him an opportunity. They wanted to interview Emile. From the beginning I’d made it clear that I alone would treat Emile, but now the board was insisting upon an interview. So I took two of the doctors, Queneau and Petit, to meet with Emile in his room. They questioned him about his comfort, his perceived progress. Then they began to ask about Pierre, and I could see something shift in Emile’s manner. He became fidgety, bouncing his knees, scratching his arms. His facial muscles were behaving oddly. I could see Queneau and Petit exchanging glances. At last they nodded and stood up, and Petit put out his hand for Emile to shake. That’s what he was waiting for. I watched Emile take his hand, and a convulsion ran through him, like he was going to sick up. Then Emile was biting into the back of Petit’s hand. Tearing at it, shaking his head, growling. Petit was shrieking, Queneau hollering bloody murder. I stepped up and smacked Emile on the back of the head. He looked up at once. It wasn’t Emile anymore, and it wasn’t Pierre. There was blood all over his mouth, his teeth. He was grinning. His eyes had changed, the colour, the pupils had constricted to black points. He said, Doctor. In English, in this rasping whisper, Doctor. Then the door banged open and the orderlies rushed in, and I watched this creature go scampering around the room like an ape, making them chase him, hooting and laughing as he crashed about. Somehow he got out the door; they cornered him down the hall. Got him in a straitjacket and hauled him up to the fourth floor. High security. The violent and deranged. They had him in a padded room, still in the jacket, hours later when they finally let me up to see him.

The board blamed you for the attack, of course? They held me responsible. And I was responsible; he was my patient. But Queneau and Petit were acting as if I’d led them into an ambush. I had to put the matter in perspective for them. A third distinct personality. The case had just expanded by another dimension. No other hospital in France was treating such a case. Prestige, publicity—I had to frame it in such terms. And Petit’s hand was not deeply injured. It was a provocation, not a true attack. The personality wanted our attention; we couldn’t simply lock him up on high security. At last they let me up to see him. By then, of course, there was just Emile, confused and frightened. He had no awareness of what had happened? He claimed to have none. It was a blank. Suddenly he was in a padded cell, just like that. I had to leave him there overnight. Early in the morning, however, an orderly came down to fetch me. He was asking for me. Not Emile. The other.

He was hunkered down in the corner of the cell when I came in. He seemed smaller, skinnier than Emile. Like an animal kept in a cage. Hungry, calculating, watching me. I had brought a needle, a sedative, in case. But he stayed there in the corner. He wanted to talk. He knew who I was, who Emile was. He knew about Pierre, he knew why they were in the hospital. He knew I wanted to study him. And he was willing to cooperate. But he wanted things in exchange. Off the fourth floor, for starters, back in Emile’s room. Later it was other things. When I was able to oblige him, he would tell me about Emile’s mother, about what she had done to them. He had the clearest recollection, I soon learned, this unknown other. He had stored the memories, all those years, away from Emile’s conscious mind. All that horror, all that rage and disgust for the father, so willfully oblivious. It had to go somewhere. So rage turns inward. If it can’t be inflicted on others, it afflicts the self. A malignancy. Pierre was created as a whipping boy, but this other held the lash, and Emile was caught helpless in between.

Mortification of the flesh, Carew mused. A kind of self-flagellation. So you are saying that L’inconnu’s function was—for Emile to punish himself?

Jekyll was staring into the jewel of wine in his glass, wide-eyed, mesmerised. Punish himself, he repeated softly.

For what? Carew asked.

Jekyll ran his tongue along his lower lip. His mouth felt very dry. He carefully set his full glass on the wicker table. For pretending, perhaps. All that time. Pretending to be a normal person. I don’t know. A trace of impatience had entered his voice. He touched his temple, where a thumping had begun. You’ll forgive me. It’s been a long day.

Carew was silent, gazing at the dark reflective bank of glass, the invisible courtyard beyond. Of course, he said. It’s late. You’ve been most accommodating. Thank you.

In the entrance hall Carew put out his spindly hand. Jekyll, he said.

Sir Danvers. Jekyll slid into his grip, and then added out of nowhere, You know, I’m throwing a little dinner party this Friday.

 

It was too much to process. This whole story of Emile Verlaine was also about us. I had accumulated over the years, like a dark pearl. I had been his whipping boy. Yet I had no desire to punish Jekyll. Quite the opposite, in fact: I wanted to protect him. He was the one taking all these risks, drawing these investigators into our sphere, flirting with exposure.

He plunged ahead with the plans for his dinner party. He designed a menu with Fanny, the meaty, florid-faced cook. He ducked around the cobwebby wine cellar with Poole in search of special vintages. He selected glassware and silver. This dinner party had once been a regular tradition at Big House. The same six guests year after year: Utterson, Lanyon, Percy and Osgood from the Grampian, McClure from the fencing club, and Talbot. Talbot was now dead, but the other five were returning, with Carew making six. By Friday afternoon I was starting to writhe in my confinement. I missed my house, my bed, my Jeannie, even old Mrs. Deaker. My life felt far away, illusory, as if it were simply something I had dreamt one magnificent night.

Resentfully I watched Jekyll button up his quilted waistcoat and draw on his lustrous cutaway tailcoat. He tugged the lapels and touched his cuffs, smoothed a palm across his impeccably parted hair. Minutes later he leant in the doorway of the card room downstairs.

Poole was at the sideboard pouring wine from the bottles into carafes. The card room was scarlet with scalloped white trim. I had never seen it used before now. How’s the nose on that Lafite? Jekyll asked, strolling in. Poole twisted off the last drizzle of wine and handed the vase to Jekyll, who gave it a swirl and sniffed the spouted opening. He met Poole’s eyes over the crystal rim. Oaky, he said, handing it back. He gazed at the table, set for seven, the crimson napkins folded into flowers on each plate. Just like old times, eh, Poole? Yes, sir, Poole said. Just like them.

 

Jekyll sat at the head, Utterson at his left hand and Lanyon at his right. I was very aware of Utterson. I could hear him eating, speaking with Carew to his left. A sustained chatter and clatter filled the card room. Jekyll propped his elbow on the padded arm of his chair and moved his fixed, pleasant smile around the table. But he was attending Utterson too. Utterson had been the last to arrive. When Jekyll had shaken his hand in the parlour, the solicitor had not met his eyes. He had continued to avoid Jekyll’s eyes all evening. Now Jekyll and I both watched him, his white tie ever so slightly askew, sombrely cutting his beef fillet and nodding at whatever Carew was saying. He felt our scrutiny. His eyes slid over. The pink glistened in his lower rims as he held the stare, chewing. He swallowed and tried a hesitant smile. Then Lanyon grabbed Jekyll’s right hand and squeezed.

His face was red to the roots of his flaxen curls. Ho there, Old Gooseberry! D’you know I was remembering that the other day? I was with a patient, very bad case, and Old Gooseberry just popped into my head. I almost burst out laughing! Lanyon’s words were slurred, his voice too loud. Yes, Jekyll said distractedly, that must have been awkward. Harry! Lanyon cried, then hiccoughed and swayed in his chair. Harry, a toast! Give us a toast, would you? He turned to the table and announced, Eh, boys, how about a toast, what d’you say? A toast from the host! There was a short silence. Then Osgood and Percy and McClure filled it in: Oh yes, a toast, come on, Doctor, let’s see if you’ve lost your touch! Lanyon was chanting, Toast! Toast!, gavelling the table each time. Jekyll lifted his hand. All right, all right. He stood with his wineglass. Suddenly it was quiet. Every eye in the room was trained upon him.

His voice was clear and calm. Friends. Old friends. And new. He nodded at Carew, who was watching, a finger to his lips. It has been too long. I was trying to determine it today. It was 1876. That was the last year we had dinner together like this, in this room. Nine years. I won’t pretend nothing has changed. These are the years when everything begins to change. We have amassed. And now we begin to lose. I don’t think it’s too much to say that each of us has lost something already. Loss is the nature of life. The inevitable rule. But that doesn’t mean we must be complacent. We can take things back. This, here, what we once had, we can reclaim, old friends. What is valuable, we must reclaim. Jekyll held the pause, staring into the candlelight. He lifted his wine. To friendship. To the end.

A pure second of silence. Then Lanyon sobbed out a laugh and cried, Cheers! Everyone lifted his glass and together they all said, almost gravely, To friendship—and they drank. Jekyll looked down at Utterson and found a wary kind of wonder in his eyes. To your health, old friend. Utterson nodded once. Your health, Harry.

 

During dessert Lanyon excused himself and didn’t return. Jekyll found him in the darkened drawing room at the other end of Big House. He was sitting on a sofa with his face in his hands, shaking. It’s no good, he moaned, waving off the handkerchief. It’s no good, please just leave me, Harry, I’m begging you. Jekyll helped him lie down, and Lanyon turned to face the back of the sofa. I’m so stupid, he said, groaning, so stupid, stupid. I just want her back. I want her to come back. Jekyll sighed, and then Lanyon reached and grabbed his wrist. Harry. He gasped. I—I should have—I—should have let you—His wine-stained mouth opened and closed like a fish’s, his eyes strained. It’s all right, Jekyll said. Everything is going to be all right.

Everyone had moved to the parlour for cigars and brandy. After an hour the guests began to say their goodbyes, and Jekyll slipped away to check on Lanyon. He was sleeping on his side, curled toward the back of the sofa, lightly snoring. When Jekyll stepped out of the drawing room, he found Utterson and Carew alone in the main hall.

They were at the far side, by the doorway to the entrance hall. Jekyll stood unseen by a large urn, straining to hear their murmuring. Carew was leaning into Utterson as he spoke, and Utterson looked away, listening, reluctantly it seemed, even leaning back a little, as if his shoes were nailed to the floor. They broke apart when Jekyll’s footsteps clicked across the marble floor. Your Dr. Lanyon, Carew said, he is feeling better, I hope? He’ll be fine. There was a pause. Well, Carew said, then this is good night. Thank you, Dr. Jekyll. I am flattered to have been included this evening. Mr. Utterson, always a pleasure. Jekyll showed him to the door, and when he closed it and turned, Utterson was behind him in the entrance hall. His eyes glimmered in the low firelight. He was breathing heavily through his nose. Come, John.

In the parlour, the dirty glasses had been cleared and the ashtrays dumped out. A fuggy haze of cigars still hung on the air. Jekyll poured some port into a large snifter and handed it to Utterson, then dropped into one of the wingbacks before the fire. His pulse was knocking rapidly. Utterson’s shadow passed and then he sat in the other chair. The coals trickled like broken glass as they burned and popped. At last Utterson said, That was some toast you gave, Harry. Did you mean it? Yes. I did. You did. So that means you truly want your friends? Jekyll looked at him. Yes. I do. Then, Harry, let me be your friend. Let me be your friend and help you.

Help me. What makes you think I need help, John? Because you do, Utterson said. I know you, Harry. As much as any man can. And I know something is not right. And we both know it’s to do with Edward Hyde.

Jekyll gazed at his friend, tapping a finger on the leather. I heard about your introduction. He told me. I didn’t believe him at first. The idea of you lying in wait for him outside that door—I couldn’t quite imagine it. No? Utterson said. You couldn’t imagine it? How else was I supposed to meet the man, Harry? But why must you meet him? What does it matter? What does it matter? Utterson repeated incredulously. Harry, you’ve handed your entire life over to this man. If you disappear—that is your word, disappear—that man is meant to simply step into your life! Are you really asking what it matters if I meet him? Utterson’s face was thick with vehemence. He looked down into his port. It is not idle curiosity; I’m not snooping into your affairs, I never have. But there is talk. Concerning Mr. Hyde. His behaviour, his character. I’ve heard things. Go on, Jekyll said. What things? Surely you know his character for yourself. I do. And I know how character is misconstrued by gossips. So please, enlighten me. No, this isn’t what I came to say. John, I want to know what you’ve heard. What behaviour? Oh, damn it, right outside your back door, Harry, the man tried to carry off a young girl, a child. Or so I heard. All right? Satisfied?

Jekyll stared at him as a valve opened in the mind. Of course. Enfield. Richard Enfield, that little girl’s saviour. Utterson knew him. They were obscurely related, distant cousins. They took Sunday strolls together. Jekyll had met him years ago. This was how Utterson had known to wait outside the Castle Street door. He hadn’t heard it from Poole. Enfield had told him I’d gone in a back door and Utterson knew exactly what that door was.

He was watching Jekyll’s reaction. Jekyll cleared his throat. Listen. I’ve heard this story too. He wasn’t trying to carry that girl off. That is a lie, I’m sure of it. You see, this is exactly what I mean about gossip, how character is—I don’t care, Utterson broke in, I’m not interested in the gossip either, as I told you. Harry, listen to me. This is what I came tonight to tell you. Whatever it is that you’ve done, I don’t care. Whatever led to this situation, whatever you did that brought him to you. I have never judged you; I have no right. Whatever it is that binds you to this man, I can help you break it. You don’t have to do this on your own. Harry, for God’s sake, let me help you!

His face trembled, and Jekyll had to look away at the shining cap of his dangling shoe. For a long moment he could not speak. John, he said at last. I’m moved. Forgive me for my tone earlier. You are concerned, and that is a great comfort. To know that you would do everything in your power to help me. If I needed help. But as it happens, I do not. Edward Hyde has no hold over me. I am interested in him, and I want to see him succeed, reach his potential. The details of that will are peculiar, I admit, but there is reason, very good reason, behind it. I’m sorry I can’t explain it to you. But I can’t. Why? Utterson cried. Why can’t you? Because you will not understand. Don’t say that you will, because you won’t. It’s not your fault. Mr. Hyde is not a likable man. He disturbs people. I’m aware of that. Most people, almost all people, are repulsed when they flip over a large rock and see all the slimy things. People don’t want to be reminded that things can grow and thrive in such conditions. But that is how they were made. That is how they look. And to a certain eye, they look very interesting. So he is a scientific specimen, is that it? If you like. But a very rare specimen, in danger of extinction, without the—The support for him to flourish, yes, yes, Utterson interrupted wearily. He shook his head, glaring into the fire. Jekyll let him simmer a moment, then he leant forward and grasped Utterson’s forearm. Utterson looked at Jekyll’s hand, large-veined and firm, then up into his eyes. John, if you truly want to help me, if you want to give me peace of mind, then do this. Promise me you’ll see to my instructions if anything should happen. Promise you’ll see that he gets what I’ve left him. Trust that I know what I’m doing, and promise. That’s how you can help me.

Slowly Utterson nodded, once, as if hypnotised.

All right, he said. I promise.