Norton, Andre - Novel 39 (18 page)

 
          
 
"You wished to see me?" Hester put
all the
chill she could summon into her question.

 
          
 
"Miss Jekyll . . ." He seemed to
drawl out the name and to her mind his tone was either a sneer or mockery.
"You've settled yourself well in, I see. Heard from the doctor? Seems as
if you'd be in mourning, miss, if what Mr. Utterson says is truth, now ain't
that a fact? There's been them in the past as has tried games—what they thought
of as very clever games, Miss Jekyll—and yet there is always something what
brings them down in the end."

 
          
 
There was, Hester thought, menace in his
voice. Anger began to rise in her, a hearty antidote to the fear this man could
cause her.

 
          
 
"Inspector Newcomen"—she was glad to
hear that her voice was still cold and steady—"I am totally at a loss as
to the purpose of your visit here."

 
          
 
He took two steps away from the window so that
they now faced each other across a small table.

 
          
 
"What brought me here? Why, a need to
know brought me here." He turned around a little to wave at the pane
behind him. "Look out that window there. You see that building? A man died
there, and not too long ago. They said he drank poison—which was perhaps better
than a rope about his neck—because he was a murderer. He was also a friend of
Dr. Jekyll's, so good a friend as Dr. Jekyll gave him the run of this house,
paid good money once to keep him out of trouble, told his servants to obey him
as if he were master here.

 
          
 
"And that man poisoned himself in the
doctor's own room and maybe, just maybe, with something the doctor himself gave
him. That Hyde—there are questions yet to be answered about him."

 
          
 
He was leaning forward across the table now,
his heavy face not far from hers, so that Hester pulled away. The inspector
smiled a far from pleasant smile.

 
          
 
"Jumpy, ain't you, Miss Jekyll?"

 
          
 
For the first time she felt an acute dislike
for that name. Unlike Mr. Utterson, the inspector seemed to use it as an
accusation.

 
          
 
"Well as you might be, well as you might
be," he was continuing. "I was hunting Hyde, but he slipped through
my fingers because he was hiding here, and you cannot make me believe that Dr.
Jekyll did not know that! Interfering with the law the doctor was, aiding a
murderer! Then he goes away clip and clean—and what happens next? Why, you come
out of
Canada
and Mr. Utterson says as how you are the doctor's kin and that he's
dead and you're the heir. 'Tis a web you've been spinning. I want to know when
the doctor died, and where, and how—that's what I want to know, and I'm going
to learn that, so I warn you."

 
          
 
He had stepped around the table now and was
advancing toward her again. For all her desire to stand up to the man, Hester
could not quite make it. Instead she turned and opened the door wide.

 
          
 
"Inspector Newcomen," she said, her
voice still steady, "you take altogether too much upon yourself. If you
have any questions, ask them of Mr. Utterson! I do not think that your
superiors would take kindly to a report that you have spoken this way to a
lady."

 
          
 
The mockery was back in his voice. "Yes,
ma'am, perhaps I was a bit sharp now, but this is a sharpish case and we shall
get to the bottom of it, never fear." He nodded. "I'd best have
another word with your solicitor presently. He'll not put me off any
longer."

 
          
 
"Bradshaw?"
Hester raised her voice, hoping that the servant had remained in the hall.
"Inspector Newcomen is
leaving,
will you please
show him out?"

 
          
 
Bradshaw was there and he had the outer door
already open as the inspector crammed on his hat and strode down the hall
toward the gathering dusk of the evening outside. Hester watched the door close
firmly behind him and then turned to the staircase. But before she had put her
foot on the first step Bradshaw spoke.

 
          
 
"Miss Jekyll."

 
          
 
"Yes?" She was impatient to get back
to her room, to be able there perhaps to collect herself and put this interview
from her mind.

 
          
 
"I wish to tender my notice. Ratsby has
asked me to speak for the same for him."

 
          
 
"Your notice?"
Hester was astounded. "What leads you to this, Bradshaw? Mr. Utterson told
me that you were very willing to come here as a butler. You know the house and
the routine well. And is it not true that this advance in position is very
favorable for you?"

 
          
 
"A man cannot be easy in any position,
miss, when the police come to the door, when he is asked questions by them he
cannot answer. I ask for my notice to be taken, miss. It is my right." His
face was flushed and he looked down, refusing to meet her eyes.

 
          
 
Why did Bradshaw fear the police?
she
wondered. And then rumors of the gossip in Lady Ames's
establishment came to her mind. An ambitious servant disliked being in a house
threatened by scandal that might wipe away respectability. Had this suddenly
become that sort of an establishment? She and Utterson were the only ones who
knew the true story—which, indeed,
was
beyond the
bonds of all respectability. There had been a most unpleasant death here—if not
under this roof,
then
only across that slip of
courtyard. And the last days of Jekyll-Hyde must have caused many tongues to
wag in the servants' hall.

 
          
 
"And Ratsby?"
There was a note of sarcasm in her voice as she asked that. There could be no
one lower on the general scale of the house hierarchy than he who was known
generally as "the boy," unless it was a scullery maid.

 
          
 
Now Bradshaw truly colored, and his eyes
shifted from side to side. "He did not—" he began and then apparently
could not give her an outright lie. She thought of the errand she had sent the
boy on that day, the message to Mrs. Kirby. And she nodded to herself. Of
course, a lady should have no dealings at all in that part of town. Not only
the history of the house but her own actions had
brought
this about.

 
          
 
"And the others?" she forced herself
to ask quietly. Was she to be abandoned in this huge house that was growing darker
and more menacing by the moment?

 
          
 
"I don't know, I am sure,
miss
. We
chooses
for
ourselves."

 
          
 
She accepted that but she did have one weapon
left, and from her acquaintance with it on her own behalf she knew it to be a
powerful one.

 
          
 
"You will give me the month, Bradshaw.
Otherwise, having had your services so
short
a time, I
cannot honestly write you any recommendation."

 
          
 
Having left him that to think about, she
turned and went up the stairs.

 
          
 
She now had much to think about herself.

 
          
 
"Will that be all, sir?"

 
          
 
"Yes, Pope."
From without, the winds that funneled down
Gaunt Street
carried the echo of distant church chimes.
There was no need to note their number; the time was
eight o'clock
. Pope had seen to it that his master's
postprandial libation was served to him in the library several minutes before
the hour as long-established nightly ritual decreed.

 
          
 
"You may go now," Utterson said.
That too was part of the ritual.

 
          
 
"Thank you, sir." A slight
inclination of the head, a deft turn, followed by inconspicuous withdrawal from
the room and the closure of the door behind him, completed Pope's participation
in the ceremony.

 
          
 
Or almost so.
Utterson sipped his gin, listening for the telltale sounds that would betoken
Pope's hasty departure for the evening. During eighteen years in his household,

 
          
 
Pope had never volunteered particulars as to
his nightly destination, nor had Mr. Utterson seen fit to question him in that
regard. It was, of course, a rather unusual arrangement for a manservant to
absent himself in this fashion. But then, Utterson conceded, he was in some
ways a rather unusual master.

 
          
 
Such was his wont that he preferred to remain
solitary within the precinct of his own premises. Although cook, scullery maid,
and housemaid retired to quarters of their own behind and above the kitchen
once duties were completed, they were sequestered from Utterson's domain.
Following dinner he'd not see them again until after his morning repast, which
Pope would serve him in his bedchambers. Precisely at what hour of the night
the manservant returned to the house was again a matter of conjecture; he too
had a rear room upstairs, and the privilege of carrying a key to the backstairs
entryway. Aside from the Popish nature of his name, Utterson could find no
fault with the man and respected his privacy, as he did his own.

 
          
 
When, on rare occasions, he found it necessary
to entertain friends or business associates, dining out proved a simple
solution. Inasmuch as he absented himself from the premises daily in pursuit of
his profession, he felt no need to employ a larger staff just to keep up
appearances. Pope was charged with full responsibility for maintaining the
household and Mr. Utterson had little personal contact with its members.
Indeed, there were times when he was hard-pressed to recall the names of those
who served him, and he possessed no knowledge of what took place within the
confines of the kitchen area or above. It had, he reckoned, been a matter of
some several years since he had last ventured to set foot upon a staircase in
this rambling old house of his.

 
          
 
And you are a rambling old fool, Utterson told
himself. He leaned forward, feeling the heat from the fireplace as he reached
for his glass to empty it without further ado. Now the warmth without was
matched by warmth within.

 
          
 
Alone, he permitted himself two unaccustomed
luxuries— a smile, and another drink. Smiling had never been his habit, nor had
overindulgence in spiritous liquors, but despite his austere ways, there were
times when Mr. Utterson found himself in need of cheer. And he'd best provide
it for
himself
, for there was little left to be gained
from other sources.

 
          
 
Such a thought banished the smile from his
lips, but not the glass. This time he gulped his drink, striving to alleviate a
sudden chill that the flame from the fireplace could not dispel.

 
          
 
Where did they vanish, those friends in whom
he had once found cheer and comfort? Within less than a year all were gone. How
he missed those Sunday strolls with his cousin! Richard Enfield, though a
distant relative, had probably been his closest companion since school days.
And Dr. Hastie Lanyon, who had once shared the secret of yet
another departed friend, Harry Jekyll.
Now each of them had passed on, leaving
him with a burden of knowledge too great to be borne alone.

 
          
 
Was that the real reason he had revealed the
truth to Hester Jekyll?

 
          
 
Utterson considered the question as he stared
irfto the firelight. There had been something about the pawky, awkward young
woman in straitened circumstances that aroused his sympathies, and of course
she was both morally and legally entitled to know the particulars of her
uncle's demise.

 
          
 
But were these actual reasons or mere excuses
for his conduct? Questions came quickly, answers slowly. He gazed deeper into
the fire, deeper into himself.

 
          
 
Yes, upon first reading Harry Jekyll's
testament he was tempted by the thought of acquiring the bequest, but conquered
his impulse. Not so much out of moral considerations, but because he had no
need of such a fortune—and, more importantly, might put himself at risk in
appropriating it lest there be other, unexpected claimants. Such had proved to
be the case, and in many ways he felt relieved; cleansed of temptation, rid of responsibility,
free of guilt. Nor would he necessarily go unrewarded along the path of virtue;
doubtless young Hester Jekyll might retain him as solicitor to guide her
interests in prudent investment. Granted, that is, if she survived to do so.

 
          
 
Mr. Utterson was not a devoutly religious man,
but he prayed that his fears for her were unfounded. If only he had some
assurance upon the matter!

 
          
 
In its absence he reached once again for the
decanter, but at finger's touch, withdrew his hand. Sorrow was held to drown in
drink, but fear could only be inflamed by excessive indulgence. And this was no
time to be afraid. The flames cast shadows, and shadows marched across the
walls to move silently throughout the house, merging with the murk of the
empty, lifeless rooms beyond.

 
          
 
Lifeless.
Like
Poole
. Marching shadows were a matter of foolish
fancy, but
Poole
's death had been a dreadful reality, all
the more frightening because it remained unexplained.

 
          
 
Certainly Inspector Newcomen's suspicions
seemed both farfetched and unfounded, motivated more by prejudice than
pragmatism. Utterson could not conceive of Hester Jekyll committing such a
crime in such a manner.
Poole
had
been battered to death, very much the way Sir Danvers Carew had met his fate at
the hands of Edward Hyde.

 
          
 
What Newcomen had heard from
Poole
's widow was unnerving; her description of a
fleeing figure evoked memories of Hyde. Or was the fleeing figure merely a
figment of her imagination, like
his own
marching
shadows?

 
          
 
Again Utterson's eyes followed the flicker of
the flames, as though seeking comfort in their dance and dazzle. At least they
were alive while all else around them—shadows, smoke, and ashes—
was
dead.

 
          
 
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Edward Hyde was
dead too, dead and buried. Utterson knew that for a fact, and yet the knowledge
offered cold comfort. It would appear that one could not rely on
"facts" anymore, not after his own experience with Harry Jekyll. What
happened to him was contrary to all scientific "facts," but there was
no doubting the evidence of his own eyes.

 
          
 
Utterson started at the sudden sound,
then
caught himself in the realization that the church bells
were marking the passage of another hour. It did not seem to him that he had
been idling for so long a time. But then time appeared to have lost length of
late; hours, days, weeks, and months merged into years. Clocks and chimes had
little meaning now. To a man of his age, time was best measured by a mirror.

 
          
 
There had been a cheval glass in Jekyll's
cabinet, and now, over the hiss and crackle from the fireplace here in the
library, came the echo of
Poole
's
voice. "This glass has seen some strange things, sir." He had spoken
in a whisper but Utterson would never forget those words, any more than he
could forget the image of the dwarfed body resting face-downward on the carpet
below. Resting was hardly the way of it, though. There were those final
convulsive shudders, very similar to the one Utterson was experiencing now as
he recalled how the figure had been turned on its back to reveal the
countenance of Edward Hyde.

 
          
 
Now, over the smell of burning logs, Utterson
fancied he could detect the scent of crushed almonds; the odor of poison from
the phial that Hyde held crushed in his hand as he expired.

 
          
 
Hyde's suicide was a fact beyond dispute, as
was the simultaneous self-destruction of Dr. Henry Jekyll. And there was no
doubt regarding the interchange of identities, due to the results of medical
experimentation. But if facts proved Jekyll compounded chemicals that changed
the body, perhaps he had done more. Jekyll cheated life. Could he also cheat
death? Could he rise from the grave again as Mr. Hyde?

 
          
 
"Preposterous." The solicitor
murmured the word aloud.

 
          
 
Even if so fantastic a possibility existed,
poor Harry would never lend himself to such sacrilege.

 
          
 
Yet Henry Jekyll might. Not his longtime
client and friend whom he thought of as Harry, but the man he had never known;
the dabbler in the secret and the forbidden. Suppose the fantastic became fact?

 
          
 
If so, Utterson knew what would happen. Should
Hyde somehow regain life, or a semblance of life, then inevitably he'd return
to the Jekyll house—and find Hester there.

 
          
 
Should any harm befall her, the solicitor's
fears, preposterous or no, would be confirmed. Yes, Hyde must find himself
drawn to the house; he would move toward it as surely as shadows marched across
the walls.

 
          
 
“Preposterous." Again his lips formed the
word but closed before allowing its passage, as thought gave way to sudden
supposition. If, through any chance and by any means, Hester succumbed to a
final fate, then Utterson would remain on record as sole heir to the Jekyll
estate. Given the consideration of Hyde's presence, he could still cope with
the situation; quickly liquidate a substantial portion of the legacy and flee.
Only Inspector Newcomen might suspect his plundering, and once the solicitor
placed foot on the soil of the Continent, pursuit would be a fruitless gesture.

 
          
 
So thinking, his mouth moved in a mirthless
and soundless chuckle. Who was he to arrogate unto himself the right of passing
judgment on poor Harry? In
his own
thought tonight
elements of good and evil had commingled, without the agency of any more
chemicals than could be found in two ounces of
Bombay
gin. How could he presume to probe the soul
of another man without first fathoming the depths of his own? He too was both a
Jekyll and a Hyde.

 
          
 
Neither aspect of
himself
occasioned fear. Physically he was confident of the ability to control his
actions. But he could not command thought, and knowing this, he was afraid. It
was unwise of him to sit alone in this house by night—alone with his thoughts.

 
          
 
But not for long.

 
          
 
Once more Utterson gave a start, prompted by
another sudden sound. But this time it was not the clang of bells but a summons
sounding from the hall and entryway beyond.