Norton, Andre - Novel 39 (9 page)

 
          
 
"Which was on what subject,
Miss Lane
?"

 
          
 
"The nature of good and evil," she
answered simply. "He was trying to prove that neither absolute good nor
complete evil could exist."

 
          
 
Utterson had raised his cup again. But without
drinking this time, he set it down abruptly so that china clinked alarmingly
against china. "Good and evil ..." he repeated.

 
          
 
"He had many discussions—with clergymen,
with those connected with the courts and the like." Hester continued.
"Then he became ill and was confined to his bed for some months. After his
death I found this on his bedside table. He was somehow very attached to this
volume. I saw him hold it in his hands many times, but he would never let
anyone else touch it. When I opened it I found this—" She slid the cover
open to show the bookplate and the signature across it. "Placed in between
the pages was the advertisement I answered."

 
          
 
Utterson held the book closer to the light.
"Is this your father's signature?"

 
          
 
"It might once have been."

 
          
 
"How is it"—Newcomen took a forceful
step forward— "that
a daughter don't
know her own
father's handwriting, miss?"

 
          
 
Utterson's hand had gone up almost in protest
but Hester answered quietly.

 
          
 
"My father did not have full use of his
hands—that is why he had me trained to help him. He had had, when I was quite
young, a very serious attack of rheumatism and suffered thereafter very much.
His fingers were drawn up and he could not straighten them out enough to use a
pen."

 
          
 
The solicitor had been leafing through the
book, but when he reached the section near the back he gave an exclamation,
held the volume very close to the lamp, and then picked up a letter opener. To
Hester's surprise he worked the point of the opener between two of the pages,
proving that they had been pasted down. There was a tear but at last he got it
open and brought out a double-folded sheet of paper, which he spread open with
care, displaying a second and smaller one inside. From these he returned to
study the book itself and then spoke to Hester with a new, crisp note in his
voice.

 
          
 
"You did not know of the presence of
these, Miss—
Miss Lane
?" He stumbled in an odd fashion over her name and something about
him made Hester suddenly even more wary.

 
          
 
"That book was my father's favorite, sir.
It was in his hands often, always by his side within reach, even when he was so
ill. I do not read Greek—you will note that it is written in that tongue—and
what my father wanted me to read to him he selected himself."

 
          
 
"Here now, what's all this?"
Newcomen came away from his place at the door and made as if to grasp the two
papers, but Utterson had planted one hand very firmly on them.

 
          
 
"This," he said, indicating the
larger of the two, "is a marriage certificate signed by a Judge William
Grafton. It states that he was present at the marriage of one Amy Dur-rant to
Leonard Jekyll in the city of
Montreal
in the year 1865. It is also countersigned
by a Forrest Wyman, vicar of St. Robert's Church of that same city.

 
          
 
"This"—he turned up the second piece
of paper as if it were a card upon which rested a considerable wager—"is
the baptismal certificate of Hester Durrant Jekyll, dated November twentieth of
the year 1867—"

 
          
 
"My birthday!" said Hester before
she thought.

 
          
 
"So."
The
big man swung halfway around so that he could see
her the
plainer in the subdued light. "Maybe you ain't
Miss Lane
—Jekyll is a name we have an interest in hereabouts.
When did the doctor decide to send you here, miss? Nice neat plan—goes into
hiding when his friend dies, waits a goodish spell till he thinks it's all
forgot, and then makes a play-acting business of it! Where did you really come
from, Miss Whateveryernamebe?"

 
          
 
Hester looked from that big rough face to that
of the solicitor and back again. She had no idea what was going on—her head
felt light. "Sir, I have never used any name save that of Lane. To my
knowledge that was my father's and the one I had a right to. It is true that my
mother was Amy Durrant. She died very young and I have no true memory of her.
My father, as I have said, lived a very retired life, something he also asked
of me.

 
          
 
"Upon his death I discovered that we had
lived entirely on the payments of an annuity that he had purchased the year my
mother died. He left nothing but the house and his library, which I was forced
to sell in order to pay a few remaining debts—"

 
          
 
"What about the doctor? No money from
him, eh? Left his blood kin to go hungry? That's not the way I've heard that he
did things. When did he meet you—and where? Went to
Canada
, eh? So that's why we couldn't find him to
have a few words. And you knew it!" He almost roared that at Utterson.
"Set it all up—advertisement in the paper . . . and young lady, poor
orphan, come to get her rights and—"

 
          
 
Utterson pushed back a little from the desk,
though he still kept his hand on the papers. "You forget yourself,
Inspector," he said in an icy voice. "I am by profession an officer
of the court, or did you not know that? There is nothing illegal about this
matter. As for
Miss Lane
—Miss Jekyll here—I knew nothing of her existence until this
afternoon."

 
          
 
"Ha!" The man Utterson addressed as
"Inspector" made that one exclamation forceful enough to deny
everything he had heard. "Where's the doctor?"

 
          
 
"I don't know any doctor," she said,
fighting to keep her voice steady. "I came to
England
three months ago with Major Jeffrey Ames's
daughter. She is only twelve and her mother died last year. The major could not
arrange leave to bring her to her grandmother's—she is Lady Ames—so he hired me
as her governess."

 
          
 
"And you are with Miss Ames now?"
That was Utterson.

 
          
 
"I was there until last week, sir. But
Lady Ames desired a governess with more experience of London life. She was able
to find one and—"

 
          
 
'Turned you off clip and clean then, eh?"
Newcomen nodded. "And the doctor, he had nothing to do with all this
coming and going?"

 
          
 
"Sir, I do not know any doctor. As for my
living, I have this very day been able to find a very pleasing and promising
position with the magazine The British Lady. You may inquire of Miss Scrimshaw,
the editor. I had written some things in

 
          
 
Canada and she was pleased to publish them a
year or so ago. Now, I must go." Somehow Hester found she was able to
stand up and put out her hand for the mistreated book and the documents it had
concealed. "Miss Scrimshaw has already given me an assignment to work
on."

 
          
 
"My dear young
lady."
There was more warmth in Utter-son's voice than she had
heard previously. "There is good reason to believe that you may be related
to Dr. Jekyll," he said, still holding the papers. "Unfortunately,
the doctor disappeared some months ago under circumstances that are difficult to
explain. Should our future discoveries prove to be of an unpleasant
kind"—he hesitated a moment—"Doctor Jekyll would have wanted his
estate to go to his kin."

 
          
 
"Was that blackguard Hyde kin then,
too?" snorted the other.

 
          
 
"Hyde!" Utterson's voice was cold.
"Hyde was kin to the devil. He certainly imposed on Jekyll shamefully. At
least the doctor was rid of him at last."

 
          
 
"Rid o' him? Mr. Utterson, none of us
will be rid of that one, dead or alive, until we get answers to a good peck of
questions." The inspector shook his head, but Utterson was already
speaking to Hester.

 
          
 
"Guest will get you a cab, Miss Jekyll.
And you will hear from us as to any progress in this sorry affair."

 
          
 
Her hand shook involuntarily as if to raise it
in denial of that strange name. One could not just be reborn—as it were—so
easily^ But it could well be that Mr. Utterson was wrong—even as much as he
gave the impression of being indeed a master of legality.

 
          
 
"My papers, if you please, sir."

 
          
 
He seemed almost reluctant to gather the notes
into the book, wrap the paper loosely around it, and hand it back to her.

 
          
 
"Be very careful of those," he said.

 
          
 
"I will," she promised.

 
          
 
From now on, Hester told herself, she must be
very careful indeed—perhaps of more than papers.

 
          
 
Once Hester was back in the cab, which luckily
Guest had paid for, she fingered the paper-wrapped book, trying to remember
everything that had been said in that lamplighted room.

 
          
 
The presence of the big man had come as a
surprise; she had not expected to be talking to a police officer, and Inspector
Newcomen's manner and questions were rude and impertinent. But it was Mr.
Utterson who most deeply disturbed her.

 
          
 
What troubled Hester most was his revelation
regarding her father's
name.
Could it possibly be
true? If so, then at some point her father and this mysterious Dr. Jekyll had
colluded in a conspiracy of silence.

 
          
 
Most disturbing of all, of course, was the
question of
her own
identity. Nor did the problem end
there. If
Hester Lane
was indeed Hester Jekyll, she had inherited far more than a mere change
of name this afternoon. There might be a legacy involved; unfortunately,
however, there were other involvements as well. The most puzzling, and possibly
perilous, was the question of where she stood with the police. Did they
actually consider her an accomplice of Dr. Jekyll's in a scheme to plunder his
own estate? Had that estate already been squandered away, and was Mr. Utterson
anxious to establish her as a relative so that she might become responsible for
its debts? Or worse still, an accessory to his disappearance, mayhap his death?

 
          
 
But she must not allow herself such thoughts.
It was this sort of reasoning, this propensity for imagining the
worst, that
led to the secretiveness of her father, the
bitter austerity of Mr. Utterson, the omnipresent hostility and suspicion of
Inspector Newcomen. As for herself, whether Lane or Jekyll she was still
Hester, and Hester she would remain. This above all, to thine own self be true —

 
          
 
Outside the fog was thick; passersby
disappeared into its depths and vehicles vanished. Clutching the wrapped book
and papers, Hester was tempted to hurl her parcel into the murk in hopes it too
might be swallowed up without a trace.

 
          
 
But that would solve nothing in the end; the
problems that had been posed would still remain, and right now it was time for
other considerations. The events of the afternoon had definitely dashed hopes
of a possible immediate inheritance. Under the circumstances it was much more
practical for her to take heed of Miss Scrimshaw's instructions for the evening
listed in the note she'd sent round. Pleasing an editor would provide a present
source of income; heeding the summons of a solicitor had only resulted in a
gratis cab ride.

 
          
 
Hester sat back. Somewhat to her surprise, she
found that she was shivering. Tonight's plans would definitely call for warmer
apparel. And had she not promised herself to execute Miss Scrimshaw's orders
she would thankfully content herself with the cold comfort of her room.

 
          
 
Luckily she did return in time for high tea,
which was offered on the massive dining room table. Since this was a meal her
landlady shared, there was no skimping. Even the tea itself was of better
quality than the one Dorry fetched in the morning. Hester's main difficulty was
avoiding direct answers to Mrs. Carruthers's indirect questions regarding where
she had been this afternoon.

 
          
 
Hester finally escaped that inquisition but
she was well aware she had left Mrs. Carruthers dissatisfied, and there might
come a time, not too far in the future, when it would be necessary for her to
find other quarters. The problem she faced now was not getting out of the
house, for Mrs. Carruthers's nephew had not yet returned. But the landlady
would surely have the door locked after he did, and to awaken the house later
would provide the last touch to making sure she would be out of a room.

 
          
 
She hurriedly changed into her oldest and
shabbiest dress. The macintosh and hat must be discarded for a shawl. She
unpinned her watch regretfully and refastened it within the folds of the shawl,
determined to have a means of keeping an eye on the time.

 
          
 
Luck was not with her. She had heard no step
in the hall but when she eased open her bedroom door there was Mrs. Carruthers,
lamp in hand. The stout woman paused, her eyes narrowed as she looked at Hester
in her improvised disguise.

 
          
 
"
Miss Lane
! Where in the world can you be off to at
this hour?
And in those clothes?"
Her expression
was that of one who has discovered the worst at last.

 
          
 
Hester's imagination awoke quickly. "I am
going to a special meeting at St. Robert's, Mrs. Carruthers. Mrs. Arthur, the
vicar's sister, wishes the two of us to call upon a distressed gentlewoman who
is in very unhappy circumstances. She suggested we adapt clothing that might
not be marked in that neighborhood."

 
          
 
"What can Mrs. Arthur
be
thinking of? Surely any such visit must be made at least in daylight!"

 
          
 
"The lady in question is employed during
the day and cannot receive us," Hester returned glibly. "I was asked
because the lady has lived in
Canada
and it was thought I might know of some
help she could receive from there."

 
          
 
I should be writing novels, she thought. At
least Mrs. Carruthers was drawing aside. Dare I ask her for a key? No, that
might be going too far. She hurried down the flight of stairs and let herself
out.

 
          
 
The fog that had earlier blanketed the street
was still there. It seemed to muffle all noise. Hester hesitated. She had the
address pinned in her shawl and had memorized the directions Miss Scrimshaw had
given her, but now that she was alone and the shrouded night was around her,
she felt a very strong inclination to return to the safety of the house.

 
          
 
She cried out as something a great deal
thicker than a shadow materialized at her side.

 
          
 
"
Miss Lane
? It's me—Fred."

 
          
 
Fred? Who was Fred? Then she remembered the
crossing sweeper to whom Hazel had sent the small gift. She was unable to see
his face clearly because a broken-brimmed hat, much too large for his head, was
pulled down to perch precariously on his ears. For the rest he seemed to be a
bundle of clothing rolled and tied and yet walking.

 
          
 
"Th' cap'n says as 'ow yuh wants ter come
see 'er—"

 
          
 
"Captain Ellison, of
the Salvation Army?"

 
          
 
'That's wot I said, warn't it?" Fred's
hat brim slid back and forth against his forehead as he nodded.

 
          
 
Hester stared at him, puzzled. "I thought
you were a sweeper. What would you have to do with the captain?"

 
          
 
"Errands an' odd jobs mostly, to earn me
keep. Some nights I doss at
a
Army shelter."

 
          
 
"But how did Captain Ellison know where
to find me?"

 
          
 
"Some 'un name o' Scrimshaw sent round
the address. Says to come fetch yer." Feet shifted beneath the base of the
bundle. "Dassent to ring, an' fair froze waitin', so let's get on wiv it,
eh, miss?"

 
          
 
A portion of the bundle detached itself to
become an arm, and a hand closed firmly on the edge of Hester's shawl, urging
her away from what little light existed about the lamp on the street and leading
her into the opening of a side alley.

 
          
 
"Beggin' yer pardon, miss," said the
urchin. "But I
knows
alleys best.
Shorter way to go, an' safer, too."

 
          
 
Hester was always to remember that journey,
through a
London
she had been warned existed but had not
quite believed in, as a descent into darkness and horror. Streetlights were
visible only momentarily when they emerged from an alley and crossed a
thoroughfare to enter another. Yet Fred wove his way through the maze without
pause, gripping a corner of her shawl to guide her forward.

 
          
 
Only occasionally did she glimpse a dim
flicker of candlelight from a window in one of the buildings bulking blackly on
both sides of an alleyway. The smells were gagging and the pavement underfoot
slippery from sources she did not wish to know. And at no point along this
route did they encounter a vehicle, or a passerby on foot, except when moving
across a street that intersected their way.

 
          
 
At length they deserted a final narrow
passageway, turning to the right on the street beyond. It was slightly wider
than an alley, a trifle less odiferous; lanterns hung over several doors and
there were people moving about. But what Hester saw and heard brought budding
fear.

 
          
 
Her first impression was of beery brutes and
frowsy women staggering in groups or stumbling singly past other figures
crouched or huddled against doorways. Raucous voices shouted out words she did
not understand as two of the women suddenly sprang at each other, fingers
crooked, tearing for hair and face. Screeching and clawing, they were swiftly
surrounded by a crowd urging them on.

 
          
 
Animals, Hester thought to herself, they're
like wild beasts. But then, glancing at them apprehensively as Fred tugged at
her shawl, initial impressions gave way to further reflection.

 
          
 
Animals do not wrap themselves in rags, nor do
wild beasts willingly choose to dwell in mean and confined quarters. A closer
glimpse of the crowd encircling the combatants disclosed more than faces
rendered bestial with excitement. Some were scarred, savaged by disease or
pitted with pox, some seamed with the wrinkles of premature aging; all were
either unnaturally ruddy and
flushed with the effects of
drink or else sallow with the pallor of poverty.

 
          
 
For the first time Hester truly understood
Miss Scrimshaw's sentiments concerning the
London
poor and the squalor in which they dwelt.
She had been correct in her description, but this alone was no substitute for
the sights and sounds—and smells—that one encountered here. To properly
retranslate the actuality into words again would be an impossibility, but worth
the try. And it was only this resolution that sustained her against the impulse
to turn and flee from tumult and terrors.

 
          
 
Releasing his grasp on her shawl, Fred sidled
along a building that seemed to be exuding a thick slime from several points on
its wall. Hester followed, keeping close to his heels. Luckily they had reached
an area beyond the clamor of the fight when Fred turned and rapped on a door so
much a part of the wall that Hester had hardly noticed it.

 
          
 
The door opened promptly and Hester was
thankful for the light of several candles beyond as she stepped inside to
confront the figure standing in the shadow of the doorway.

 
          
 
"Got 'er," Fred said, pointing a
grimed hand in her direction. Then he was gone through another door before
Hester could move.

 
          
 
The woman facing her was tall, broad
shouldered, with the alert posture of a person who got things done and was
brisk about it. She wore a plain dark dress with no hint of flounce or bustle,
and her gray-streaked hair was mostly covered by a bonnet that had something of
the same authority of a nurse's cap. Her eyes seemed tired but there was no
droop to her wide mouth as she spoke.