The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: Dr Jekyll & Mr Holmes (14 page)

‘There is more.’ Utterson’s breath was coming more easily now, and his complexion had regained something of its normal colour. He again inserted a hand inside the pocket from which he had taken the note and, finding nothing there, searched each of his remaining pockets in turn until he took out yet another scrap, larger than the first, and handed it to Holmes, who pounced upon it as a hound might the trail of its quarry.

‘The afternoon of the day I showed you the Hyde note,’ explained the lawyer, ‘I was sitting with my clerk, Mr. Guest, in my business-room when my man brought in the dinner invitation which I just handed you, signed by Henry Jekyll. Guest is something of a student of handwriting, and so in the interests of curiosity I had given him the original note to see what he made of it. When he saw Jekyll’s invitation he asked to examine that as well. I gave it to him, and after some comparison he said —’

‘ — that the two specimens were written by the same hand,’ finished the detective, returning the two notes after a quick glance. ‘He is absolutely right. I told you at the time that a clumsy attempt had been made to disguise the handwriting. Since according to his butler no such note was handed in that day, it naturally followed that Jekyll himself had forged it. You were in no mood to accept such an hypothesis, however, and so I kept it to myself. You have placed me in a tenuous position, Mr. Utterson; in deference to you and your client I have committed a felony by withholding evidence from the police. Why did you not come to me with this information three months ago? You have much to answer for.’ He spoke sternly.

Utterson turned a shamed face upon him. Holmes held up a hand, staying his explanation.

‘Say no more. You were shielding your friend. I shall not waste any more time pointing out the folly of such a course, as such lectures have already proved useless where you are concerned. The question now is, what has prompted this sudden change of heart?

The lawyer glanced uneasily from side to side, where pedestrians flowed past in an incessant stream. ‘Is there a place where we may converse in private?’

‘Simpson’s is nearby,’ said Holmes. ‘If it is not too early for you, Utterson, I think that we could all do with a glass or two of sherry.’

Our erstwhile client did not object, and when we had all adjourned to a table in the aforementioned restaurant with a bottle of the rejuvenative liquid in the centre and full glasses to hand, he began his narrative.

‘My delay in coming forward with this damning evidence may seem more justified once I have explained the circumstances,’ he commenced, staring moodily into his wine. ‘At first, of course, I was sick at heart to think that the man whom I’d thought I understood more than any other would jeopardise his brilliant career to protect a murderer. I had feared that blackmail was at the bottom of it, but now I harboured serious doubts about his sanity and, knowing something of the disgraceful state of our leading mental institutions, I shrank from telling what I knew lest I condemn my dearest friend to a living death.’

‘As time passed, however, and the spectre of Edward Hyde gradually lifted from both our lives, I began to notice a definite change for the better in Jekyll. It was as if he had been born again with all the idealism of his youth intact; no longer a recluse, he renewed all of his old friendships, returned to his medical practice, which had always been distinguished for the many charity cases which he took on for no reward other than the satisfaction of healing, and even became a frequent church-goer, something which he had never been previously. His spirits soared higher than I had ever known them, as if he had at last exorcised himself of that daemon which had threatened to bear him down into the deepest recesses of Hell and made peace with his restless urges. In this light, perhaps you will understand why I deemed it best that the entire episode involving Hyde be forgotten — his disappearance, as it were, having made up in some measure for the murder of Sir Danvers.

‘It was on the morning of January twelfth that I found Jekyll’s door barred to me for the first time since the murder. His butler explained that his master was indisposed and could not see anyone. I thought little of it at the time, since just four nights previously I had dined there in a small company which included Hastie Lanyon, and the evening had been one of jolly camaraderie, with no indication of anything but bright days to come. Indeed, it looked as if the two doctors might yet bridge the chasm which had kept them apart for more than a decade. I returned on the fourteenth and again on the fifteenth, and still he would not see me. This sudden return to his old reclusive ways disturbed me, and after mulling it over for some time I went to see Lanyon on the seventeenth, last night.’

At this point the lawyer’s nerves seemed to have failed him, and he took a hasty sip of the dark liquid in his glass. Then he resumed, in tones heavy with meaning.

‘Mr. Holmes, I have never beheld so rapid a change in a man as I saw in Dr. Lanyon last night. A scant nine days before, he had been the very picture of health; now I found myself in the presence of a man as near death as any I have ever seen. Formerly robust and ruddy of complexion, he was pale as a ghost and withered horribly, his flesh hanging upon his bones like yellowed linen from a clothing-rod. His voice trembled, and when he stepped back from the door to admit me he shuffled like a man in his last extremity. I very much fear that he will not live to see spring.

‘He explained that he had suffered a shock from which he will not recover, and that there is nothing left for him but the grave. Worse, I inferred from his words that he is glad of it. When I mentioned Jekyll, crimson patches appeared upon his sallow cheeks and he forbade me to mention his name again. He said further that as far as he is concerned Henry Jekyll is already dead. That is how the matter stands at present, and I suppose that it is unnecessary to add that I spent a sleepless night before I decided to come to you.’ He shuddered and looked across at my companion with a pair of eyes in which all the anguish of the world seemed to rest. ‘Mr. Holmes, is there nothing you can do which will stem this tide of woe?’

‘I cannot say,’ responded the other, whose own wine-glass remained untouched before him. ‘It may already be too late.’

‘I know that I have no right to ask for your help.’ Utterson’s voice now was a faint whisper. ‘But I have been on this earth fifty years, and I shall not live to make another friend like Jekyll or Lanyon. I do not wish to spend the rest of my existence alone.’

When there was no response, the lawyer stood and, after murmuring a farewell to each of us, turned to collect his hat and coat. Holmes leant forward and snatched his sleeve. He turned back. Their gazes locked.

‘I shall do what I can, Mr. Utterson,’ said the detective. ‘I can promise no more.’

‘God bless you, Mr. Holmes.’ Utterson’s eyes glistened with moisture. Then he left the restaurant.

‘Watson, are you willing to try your hand as a detective?’ asked my companion on our way out.

‘Whatever skills I may possess in that line could never hope to equal your own,’ said I, my curiosity aroused by this strange request.

‘You cannot know that until you try.’

‘What is it that you wish of me?’

‘A cross-examination.’

Confidence overtook me. During my brief career as a military surgeon in Afghanistan I had had ample opportunity to observe the regimental physicians ascertain by a circumspect question-and-answer session whether a would-be patient was indeed ill or shirking, and had myself often taken part in these interviews. I fancied myself proficient in the art of cross-examination, which in many ways is as vital to the medical man as it is to the court barrister. Here at last was an area in which I could win the admiration of the man whom I admired above all others.

‘And whom am I to cross-examine?’

‘Dr. Hastie Lanyon, of Cavendish Square.’

‘That would require the utmost delicacy,’ said I. ‘If Utterson spoke the truth, his death is imminent, and I should not relish the thought of being the one who brought it about.’

‘Quite right.’ He was in the act of re-lighting his pipe. ‘That is why I am entrusting this deed to you, whose sensitivity is unsurpassed by anyone else of my acquaintance. Draw him out, Watson. Find out what Jekyll is up to. It’s plain that we’re no longer welcome beneath the great man’s roof, and yet I feel certain that it is from his end that this affair will yet find its
dénouement
.’

‘And what will you be doing?’

He got the tobacco going and drew in a great lungful of smoke, smiling impishly as he released it. ‘Ah, but that is something which you must not ask me just yet. You must allow me my idiosyncracies. Here is a cab now. You remember Lanyon’s address? Excellent. You have a remarkable memory for details; it is one of the things which I most admire about you. Very well, then. Into the cab like a good fellow, and I shall meet you back in Baker Street for dinner.’

T
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D
r. Hastie Lanyon lived in a fine old house at the corner of Wigmore and Harley Streets in the very heart of the doctors’ quarter, a four-storeyed brick edifice which dwarfed most of the other buildings in the neighborhood and looked as if it had been erected during the reign of James I. The stone steps leading up to the front door had been worn hollow by the countless pairs of feet which had trod them over the years. Scarcely had I made use of the brass bell-pull when the iron-clamped oaken door swung inwards as on a pivot and I found myself face to face with an expressionless manservant whose thick features overlain with scar-tissue made me suspect that he performed double-duty as a bodyguard. I catalogued this information in my memory for future reference.

‘Yes?’ His voice put me in mind of sandpaper being dragged listlessly across a stubborn piece of wood.

‘My name is Dr. Watson,’ said I, presenting my card. ‘I would like to speak with Dr. Lanyon.’

He made no motion to accept the card. ‘Dr. Lanyon is very ill. He can see no-one.’ The door began to close. I borrowed a leaf from Holmes’s book and inserted my foot behind the threshold. The heavy door nearly crushed it. I bit my lip to keep from crying out.

‘I think that he will see me.’ Somehow I managed to keep the strain from my voice. ‘It is about Dr. Jekyll. More specifically, it is about Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.’

It was a moment before the butler responded. ‘Wait here, please.’ He began again to close the door, paused and glanced meaningfully downwards. I withdrew my foot. The door slid into its casing with a reverberating boom.

I took advantage of the time left me to sit upon the top step and massage my injured appendage, and was thus engaged when the door opened again. I scrambled to my feet.

The manservant’s features were as blank as before. ‘Dr. Lanyon will see you now.’ He stepped aside.

I was led down a shallow corridor lined somewhat incongruously with handsome modern water-colours — hung there, no doubt, to remove patients’ fears that the physician’s methods of healing were anything but up to the moment — and ushered into a comfortable consulting-room in which efficient medicine was much in evidence: leather-bound medical journals jammed the bookshelves and a new-looking microscope reposed unobtrusively surrounded by glass slides upon a deal table near the door, whilst an oaken filing-cabinet with drawers labelled alphabetically stood at the rear of the room. The top drawer was open, and what looked to have been its contents — a dozen or so manila folders crammed with papers — were heaped high atop a modest desk before the cabinet. These were the only details which I was able to make out, however, for no lamp was burning and the only illumination in the room, aside from that provided by the flames in a huge old fireplace at the other end, was that sunlight which filtered through the heavily-curtained window, leaving the corners in shadow.

A man who had been seated in a stuffy leather armchair in one of these corners rose unsteadily at my entrance and stood there swaying. He made no attempt to shake hands and so I did not offer mine. His features were indiscernible in the gloom.

‘Is there any reason why I should know you, Dr. Watson?’ he asked in a dissipated voice. There was in his speech a minute quaver, as one sometimes detects in that of an old man for whom death is approaching.

‘None whatsoever,’ I responded. ‘We do not travel in the same circles.’

‘And yet it would seem that we have a mutual acquaintance in Henry Jekyll.’

He nearly spat the last two words. Now I became aware of an undercurrent of bitterness which seemed to be the only strength he had left. He shambled towards the centre of the room, and as he did so a bar of pale light from the window fell across his features.

Death is hardly novel to one of my experience, and yet I think that I have never been in the presence of a man upon whom it was more clearly written than it was on Hastie Lanyon. He was balding, but in a manner which suggested some sudden malady rather than the systematic ravages of age, large patches of pink scalp showing here and there amidst the white. His hazel eyes were clouded and sunken, his complexion pasty-white, his full jowls, which may once have been cherubic but of recent years had taken on a bulldog tenacity indicative of a cantankerous old age, now slack and glistening with a most unhealthy sheen. Purple circles beneath his eyes told of too many nights spent without sleep, hollow cheeks of too many days without sufficient food. Utterson had been no less than correct when he predicted that his old friend would not survive the winter, but my trained eye foretold that he would be fortunate even to see March.