Norton, Andre - Novel 39 (27 page)

 
          
 
 
“Thank
you, miss. Drink your tea 'fore it gets cold now. Good night."

 
          
 
"Good night," Hester returned, but
she was more aware of the fact that though her portion of gruel was not yet
finished, Sallie seemed to be lapsing into slumber again.

 
          
 
As Hester set the bowl aside, the girl gave a
little sigh and settled back amongst the pillows as though at last ready for
rest.

 
          
 
Hester poured herself a cup of the waiting tea
after she had drawn her shawl closer about her. She took a small sip. It was
sweet, as if loaded down with honey, the same type of restorative they had
pressed on Sallie earlier. Only Hester found it far too sweet to her taste,
much as she did not want to hurt Bertha's feelings.

 
          
 
Sallie was well asleep again. Hester went
softly to her own chamber, teacup in hand, and emptied its contents into the
slop jar. Then, gathering a second shawl and a throw from her own bed, she was
back with the child. Selecting the most comfortable chair in the room, she drew
it close to the bed.

 
          
 
Now that the house was silent within, she
became aware the storm seemed to have died down. Yet she found herself
listening as if she expected some happening that had not yet come. Finally she
went to the hall door of the room and, for no good reason she could give, stood
with her ear against it. There was no sound.

 
          
 
Back once more in her chair, her feet at rest
on a small footstool, yet close enough to the bed to be aware of any move from
Sallie, Hester rested her head against the tall back of the chair, and, in
spite of all her best intentions, her eyes closed. How long she dozed so she
did not know but she came awake and sat upright.

 
          
 
Her first attention was for Sallie but the
girl had not moved.

 
          
 
Hester pressed her lips together tightly, her
hands curled into fists. She was certain that she had awakened because of some
sound. The fire had burned quite low again. She made herself move to the
hearth, put some lumps of coal on. But she did not lay aside the brass-handled
poker, keeping it still in hand as she went toward the hall door.

 
          
 
This time she opened it a crack to hear the
better.

 
          
 
There!

 
          
 
As well carpeted as the
stairs might be, the old wood creaked under weight.

 
          
 
Someone was coming.

 
          
 
Now she could see light, a wavering glow that
could only be that of candle flame. Without thought Hester opened the door
wide.

 
          
 
Bertha stood at the top of the stairs. She
uttered a startled gasp and looked at Hester as if her mistress were an
apparition.

 
          
 
In one hand she held a candle, which now
tipped perilously to one side so the wax dripped to the carpet. In the other
hand there was a gleam of metal. Bertha had armed herself with one of the large
carving knives.

 
          
 
"Bertha, what are you doing?"

 
          
 
"Oh, miss." The girl's voice was
low-pitched but there was truly fear in it. "Oh, miss, I
be
comin' to fetch you. There was a noise—"

 
          
 
"What sort of noise?"

 
          
 
Bertha hesitated, frowning. "Summat like
a door closin' wiv the 'inges gone to rust—"

 
          
 
"Here, inside the house?"

 
          
 
Bertha's frown deepened. "It could
be."

 
          
 
For a moment Hester felt the tingling of
sudden fear,
then
dismissed it with a shake of the
head. "But that's quite impossible. We checked the doors together. And all
the hinges were oiled when the new locks were installed."

 
          
 
But even as she spoke, her banished fear
returned. New locks had been installed throughout the house, but not the
laboratory across the way, where the outer door was yet to be replaced.

 
          
 
Hester started forward. "Come with
me." She gestured with her poker. "And put that thing away before you
cut yourself with it."

 
          
 
The girl thrust the knife through the belt of
her apron and moved up beside her mistress, holding the candle high.

 
          
 
Together they entered the sewing room and
crossed to the window. Hester halted and looked outward. The rain had ceased
but the sky was clouded and the night was dark. Staring down at the black bulk
of the building across the courtyard, she scanned the entrance. To her relief
the outer door was closed.

 
          
 
It was not until she started to turn away that
she saw the momentary glimmer through one of the upstairs windows. A light,
flickering in that ill-omened cabinet above the far end of the laboratory! And
then, literally in the blink of an eye, it was gone.

 
          
 
"Bertha, did you see it?"

 
          
 
"See what, miss?"

 
          
 
"The light across the
way."

 
          
 
Bertha shook her head. "No, miss."
She glanced down at the candle flame. "Per'aps it be a reflect'un on the
glass from this 'ere."

 
          
 
The answer made sense—at least the sense
Hester wanted to believe in now. Still, she must be sure.

 
          
 
"Please lift the candle," she said,
then
looked out as Bertha complied. But there was no sign of
a reflection in any of the upstairs windows.

 
          
 
"Move it about, Bertha. The light may
have been cast on the pane from a different angle."

 
          
 
Again the girl complied and for a long moment
they both fixed their gaze on the darkened windows. Then, as the candle
sputtered, Bertha glanced away, poking to clear the wick. It wasn't until
Hester started to turn once more that she caught the flickering flare from the
corner of her eye. An instant later it vanished, but now she knew there had
been no mistake. And what she had seen was not a reflection.

 
          
 
Bertha looked up at her mistress.
"Miss—?"

 
          
 
Involuntarily Hester's grip tightened around
the handle of the poker. "Come!" she ordered, crossing to the
doorway, then gesturing Bertha to precede her along the hall and down the
stairs to the landing below. There she halted.

 
          
 
"What is it, miss?" Bertha's voice
seemed to come from a long distance away. Hester shaped words with a mouth that
was suddenly dry.

 
          
 
"Let me have the candle," she said.
Bertha complied, and in its closer light Hester consulted her watch. The time
was nine-thirty. And though the rain had ceased, the heaviness in the air
hinted that this was but a temporary lull. She must take advantage of it now;
there was no other choice.

 
          
 
"Bertha."
Hester had to force herself to speak calmly. "Do you know how to reach Pembroke
Square?"

 
          
 
"Yes, miss. Three squares south an' one
east."

 
          
 
Hester nodded. "I recall Inspector
Newcomen saying a police station is located at the corner crossing. You will
please to go there immediately."

 
          
 
"But, miss—"

 
          
 
Hester ignored the interruption. "Inform
them we are in need of a constable and ask if he might accompany you here at
once."

 
          
 
The girl frowned, bewildered. "They'll
want a reason—"

 
          
 
"Tell them there appears to have been a
break-in out back. And that it would be best to notify Inspector Newcomen as
quickly as possible, since he is concerned in this matter. I think mention of
his name could be helpful."

 
          
 
"Ooh, miss
,
then
there be some mischief what you've not told me—"

 
          
 
"Bring a constable and we'll see."
This was the time for firmness, not faltering. "Now take your shawl and be
off."

 
          
 
Before Bertha could utter further protest
Hester was guiding her on a candlelit journey ending at the front door. Here
she thrust the keys into the girl's hand. "I shall be upstairs with Sallie,
so use these when you return." For the first time her voice betrayed the
urgency seething within her, but not the fear.

 
          
 
And it was the fear that mounted with her as
she climbed the stairs. Once Bertha had departed on her errand, with the front
door closed and locked behind her, fear remained Hester's sole companion. When
she reached the room to find Sallie soundly sleeping, there was momentary
relief, but it was not until she made another visit to the sewing room that a
further inspection dispelled her dread. The building below and beyond the
window was dark once more.

 
          
 
Perhaps it had always been so, and the lights
had indeed been no more than reflections. In such a case the police would take
her for a fool. Still, better to risk their ridicule than the possibility of
perils seen ox unseen. In any case, she hoped Bertha would not be long.

 
          
 
Returning to her post, Hester dropped into a
chair at the bedside. Thank heavens the child was safe!
Safe,
and so deep in slumber after such an ordeal.
In this, at least, she
could be envied; as Hester leaned back she wished it were possible for her to
close her own eyes, if only for a moment. And, in a moment, she had. It had
been a trying evening.

 
          
 
It had been a trying evening for Albert
Prothore.

 
          
 
Getting about in the storm was the least of
it; a stroke of luck provided him with transportation just around the corner
from the Jekyll house. Nonetheless his journey was hardly pleasant; storm or
no, the Strand was jammed with cabs and carriages at this hour. The discomfort
of wet garments only served to intensify his impatience as the hansom's pace
frequently slowed to a crawl.

 
          
 
Meantime his thoughts were racing. What Sallie
had told them must have come as a shock to Hester, but his own immediate
response was one of sheer outrage. That low and debased creatures like Sallie's
father might perpetrate such infamies he could at least understand, though not
excuse. Even the little he had learned thus far while investigating in Sir
John's behalf was enough to explain deeds born of degradation and desperation.
But Faulkner's role in this affair was another matter. It was he, and others
like him, who made it possible for the panderers and procurers to ply their
filthy trade here and abroad, for poverty-stricken parents to sell their
children, for children to sell themselves.

 
          
 
Upon approaching Trafalgar Square the cab,
impeded by traffic ahead, came to a jarring halt, and this time the pace of
Prothore's thought followed suit.

 
          
 
Hold on now, he told himself. Not so fast; no
point jumping to conclusions. Club gossip about Faulkner was scarcely a
substitute for hard evidence. There were other residences flanking the four
sides of Cadogan Square, and any of these might well harbor elderly gentlemen
with perverse inclinations. There would be no reason to mention his suspicions
to Inspector Newcomen unless he could substantiate them. If Mrs. Kirby or any
of her household staff furnished anything by way of proof, it would be time
enough to speak up. Until such a juncture, what he meant to tell the inspector
concerning Sallie should be sufficient.

 
          
 
Admiral Nelson stood steadfast against
thunder, lightning, and driving rain, but Albert Prothore was grateful for the
protection of the cabman's brolly as he was escorted to the shelter of Scotland
Yard.

 
          
 
Once inside he was on his own in the
crisscross of damp hallways flickering in the fitful flare of gaslight. Rain or
shine, the corridors here remained crowded, the cubicular offices occupied,
twenty-four hours a day. It was all very well to speak of law and order, but
there seemed precious little of the latter here. Law and disorder would be a
more appropriate description. Prothore was forced to make no less than three
inquiries before finally finding his way to Inspector Newcomen's diminutive
domain.

 
          
 
Newcomen was properly surprised by.his visit
and even more taken aback by the account of Sallie's ordeal. It required
nothing more on Prothore's part for the inspector to take action.

 
          
 
"No sense sending constabulary around
until we know what we're after," he said. "What's wanted is prompt
investigation. I'd best deal with the matter directly. D'ye
have
the street address?"

 
          
 
"I do." Prothore nodded.
"Better still, I'll go with you."

 
          
 
"That won't be necessary, sir."

 
          
 
"By your leave, I should like to
accompany you. Miss Jekyll is greatly concerned—"

 
          
 
"As you please."
Newcomen busied himself donning a greatcoat preparatory to braving the storm.
"But meaning no offense, sir, since this is by way of being official
business, it's understood that I'm to ask the questions."

 
          
 
"Agreed."

 
          
 
The rain was still pelting down as the
inspector led Prothore by a circuitous route to the square. Here, much to the
young man's surprise, a cab stood at the curbing, then rolled forward
immediately as they appeared.

 
          
 
"Jerry," the inspector murmured.
"Reckon I'm his best customer."

 
          
 
And so he seemed to be, judging from the
alacrity with which the cabby produced a brolly and ushered them across the
walk and into the waiting vehicle. Prothore noted that Jerry had a second
umbrella for his own use already opened and mounted above the driver's seat.
The horse, less fortunate, had to be content with a battered specimen of straw
headgear with a brim wide enough to protect both eyes from the onslaught of
rain.

 
          
 
Once settled and rolling Prothore took
confidence in the realization that the first stage of his mission had been
accomplished. This confidence, he acknowledged, was increased by the presence
of his companion. Inspector Newcomen was by no means the sort of chap one would
seek out as a dinner guest or partner for a game of whist, but in a situation
like this he was an ideal repository of trust.

 
          
 
During the drive he asked many questions.
Mainly he seemed concerned with Sallie's veracity, though the lack of details
in her story didn't trouble him overmuch.

           
 
"Drugged, I venture," he said.
"Small wonder she couldn't tell more. Unless, of course, it's all
twaddle."

 
          
 
"But there'd be no reason. And we both
know she was in harm's way before." Prothore glanced at his companion.
"Would you think it likely her father might have been behind this attack
also?"

 
          
 
"Possible." Newcomen shifted in his
seat as the cab lurched.
"Bears looking into."

 
          
 
Prothore frowned. "It would appear you
have a great deal to look into.
This business of the grave
robbery, as well as murder.
And have you yet discovered the whereabouts
of Mr. Utterson's manservant?"

 
          
 
"Pope?"
The
inspector shook his head. "No telling where that one disappeared to.
Sunk without a trace."

 
          
 
"Do you surmise he might be responsible
for his master's death?"

 
          
 
Newcomen sighed. "That's a hard nut to
crack. What's lacking here is motive. Nothing in the house seems to have been
disturbed, and the victim's wallet hadn't been emptied, so it wasn't robbery. I
had a word with Utterson's clerk and the charwoman on hire for weekly cleaning,
and they know nothing about Pope, or if there was bad blood between him and the
deceased."

 
          
 
Prothore glanced sharply at his companion. "Would
Pope have known the truth about Dr. Jekyll?"

 
          
 
"Not likely. Utterson was a closemouthed
man."

 
          
 
"But his chief clerk, Robert Guest, must
have had some inkling."

 
          
 
"That may be. But I still hold murder
springs from motives, not inklings."

 
          
 
The inspector's tone was brusque but Prothore
ignored it. Peering through the window at his right, he observed that the
downpour had slackened; gas lamps kindled radiant reflections from rain-soaked
cobblestones, transforming gutters into glitter. Yet lightning was far from
plentiful here and the intervals between held only darkness in their depths. A
cold wind slithered through the streets, and even inside the cab, with the
added though somewhat dubious protection of his damp inverness, he felt sudden
chill.

 
          
 
Could it be occasioned by fear? Such emotions
were, of course, foreign to English gentlemen; if indeed he was afraid, it was
not for his own safety.

 
          
 
Hester was his concern, she and the two girls
unarmed and unsecured in the night. Even if no danger threatened from without,
the very house that held them had been the scene of tragedy before; perhaps it
harbored other perils still. He determined to return there without a moment's
delay once the meeting with Mrs. Kirby concluded.

 
          
 
The rain had ceased entirely by the time Jerry
brought cab to curb before the residence that Albert Prothore recognized from
the other evening. It was hard to realize how much had happened during the
short span since the night he had rescued Hester from Sallie's father and his
companions.

 
          
 
Prothore tempered the thought with a rueful
smile. "Rescued" was hardly the proper term; "forcibly
removed" was closer to the mark. What a senseless little fool he thought
her to be, coming to a place like this on that occasion! And yet here he was
tonight, himself returning to the scene of— what?
A crime,
the suspicion of a crime, or merely the focal point of a hysteric child's
flight of fancy?

 
          
 
Whatever the answer, he hoped it would be
forthcoming shortly. The thought of Hester's plight could not be banished, but
he did his best to concentrate on the mission at hand while accompanying
Newcomen from the cab. Jerry had dismounted from his perch; he was feeding
something by hand to the wet and weary horse as a reward for services rendered.

 
          
 
The wind seemed to swirl more swiftly even in
the brief time required for the two men to proceed along the walk and up the
steps to the front door. Prothore tugged at his hat brim to tighten it against
rising gusts. The rain would be returning soon.

 
          
 
Once within the shelter of the doorway he
stood waiting as the detective knocked. It was a matter of some moments before
the energetic summons was answered. When the door inched open, the face that
peered cautiously outward and upward bore no resemblance to Hester's
description of the lady residing here.

 
          
 
"Yus?"
The
utterance was midway between a query and a croak.

 
          
 
The big man nodded. "We wish to see Mrs.
Kirby," he said.

 
          
 
"'Oo 'ud I say is callin'?"

 
          
 
"Inspector
Newcomen."

 
          
 
The croak took on a guarded tone. "Yuh
wiv
th
' p'leece?"

 
          
 
"Scotland Yard."

 
          
 
"Missus
don't
be
'ere."

 
          
 
The door started to close far more quickly
than it had opened, but Newcomen's right boot wedged in the crack. "Not so
fast," he retorted. "I'd like a word with you."

 
          
 
"Th' missus be aout." Again the thin
sloven attempted to push the door shut but the inspector's foot remained firmly
lodged. His hand tugged the edge of the door, pulling it forward to widen the
opening.

 
          
 
There was a murmur of protest.
"'Ere, whatcher abaout?"

 
          
 
"Mind if we step inside to talk?"
Newcomen said.

 
          
 
The woman shook her head. "The chil'em is
asleep. I'll not 'ave yuh makin' a disturbance."

 
          
 
The inspector made no reply, but retained his
hold on the door to keep it open at this angle.

 
          
 
Now Prothore obtained a better view of the
woman who confronted them across the threshold. From beneath a cloth cap
reddish curls framed a blotched forehead and a crook-nosed face mottled by
broken veins. He recalled Hester's description of the domestic she had encountered
here, and tried to remember the name she'd mentioned.