The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: Dr Jekyll & Mr Holmes (20 page)

‘That was the only time you ever saw him?’

‘As far as I know he was never seen in this quarter after that.’

‘And yet a little while ago you referred to him by his Christian name.’

She smiled faintly, her good humour having in some measure returned. ‘I am hardly likely to have forgot the name of my partner in that
débâcle
. I think that you will agree that Dr. Jekyll sounds rather stilted, under the circumstances.’

‘I cannot disagree. That, then, is the entire incident as you recollect it?’

‘Yes-s-s,’ she said, but without conviction. Holmes seized upon it.

‘There is something else?’

‘It is such a trifle.’

‘Great things are naught but a compedium of trifles. Proceed.’

‘He muttered in his sleep. His words were so strange that I fancy I can recall them yet.’ She passed a slim white hand across her forehead as though to clear away the mist of years.

‘“Jekyll the Builder and Jekyll the Carouser,” said he. “If I could but separate them, what worlds would be mine!” That was it. He said it again and again. The words varied, but the meaning, if meaning there was, remained the same. Can you make anything of it at all?’

‘It seems to have been a pet subject with him,’ said Holmes. He sat there a moment longer, brooding. Then he got up. ‘I am grateful, Miss Flanagan. If there is any way in which I can return the favour —’

‘There is one way.’ She rose. ‘Please wait.’ She lifted her skirts and hurried into the next room amidst rustling satin, leaving us alone in the parlour. The young women gathered at the top of the stairs took advantage of their mistress’s absence to converse amongst themselves in low whispers, punctuated at intervals by girlish giggles. I pretended to interest myself in the details of a pastoral landscape which hung upon the opposite wall and tried not to eavesdrop. Holmes appeared to be lost in a world all his own.

The proprietress of the establishment returned shortly, carrying something in a clenched fist. This she pushed into Holmes’s open hand as she approached him.

‘I would appreciate it if you would give that to Henry Jekyll the next time you see him,’ she said. ‘I do not relish the idea of owing anybody anything.’

The detective looked down at the bright new shilling which glittered in the palm of his hand, and smiled.

‘Consider it done, Madame,’ said he.

A C
RY
F
OR
H
ELP
?

W
e had crossed three streets after leaving Fanny Flanagan’s house of ill fame before it occurred to me that we were circling back in the direction from which we had come. I began to remark upon this strange behaviour, only to be cut off in mid-sentence when my companion placed a discreet finger to his lips.

‘It is as I thought,’ he observed in a low murmur after we had progressed a few more steps. ‘Do not turn round, but we are being followed. Don’t, I say!’

Involuntarily I had turned to look over my shoulder but checked the movement upon his stern command. Behind us I heard stealthy footsteps rounding the corner.

‘Who is it?’ I whispered.

‘I caught a glimpse of him back there when I stopped to light my pipe. I’ve never seen him before. Keep walking.’

We continued as far as the next corner, where a solitary cab was approaching at a swift pace, its driver evidently in a hurry to be quit of the place after dropping off some late fare from the evening before. Holmes hailed it.

‘He approaches,’ warned the detective as we were about to board. ‘Be ready for anything.’

‘I say, lads, that’s my cab.’

Holmes and I turned. The appearance of the newcomer, and the tone in which his statement had been delivered, moved me to squeeze the revolver in my right-hand pocket. He was a brawny Scotsman from the lower classes, attired in a worn ulster from the frayed sleeves of which protruded no cuff of any kind, and a soft, soiled cap whose creased peak all but hid his unshaven features from view, pulled low as it was over his bloodshot left eye. One of his hands was concealed ominously among the folds of his greatcoat.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Holmes.

‘Don’t beg my nothing, laddie. I saw her first and she’s mine. Unless you want to settle it the man’s way.’ Here he leered, showing two rows of tobacco-stained teeth among which many gaps were visible.

Holmes pretended to ignore him and turned to mount the cab. The Scot moved suddenly and something flashed in the hand which he had been hiding.

‘Holmes! Look out!’ I tried to claw the revolver out of my pocket. The steel sight caught on the cloth, tearing it.

But the detective was ready for him. No sooner did the man lunge forward, thrusting with the knife, than Holmes grasped his outstretched wrist in both hands, crouched, and with the aid of his assailant’s own momentum tossed him over his back so that he landed with a jarring thud in the gutter almost beneath the hooves of the cabby’s horse. The animal whinnied and tried to rear, but its master had a firm hand on the reins. Taking advantage of that situation, the cabby steered around the man sprawled in the street, unfurled his whip, and left at a brisk trot.

The instant the Scot struck the ground, Holmes, still gripping his wrist, stepped over him and placed the heel of his boot against the back of the man’s neck. He then leant forward, twisting the arm as he did so. The knife clattered to the pavement. Nevertheless he maintained pressure on the strained limb. The man on the ground groaned.

‘The time has come for answers, my friend,’ said Holmes. ‘Who are you and why did you try to kill me?’

There was no answer. He increased the pressure. The Scot gasped.

‘I wasn’t trying to kill no-one!’ he blurted.

‘In that case, friend, you have much to learn about meeting people. Answer the question!’ He twisted harder. The Scot cursed through his teeth.

‘As God is my witness, it wasn’t your life I was after!’ The words came tumbling out all in a breath.

‘What, then?’ Holmes let up slightly.

‘It was supposed to be a warning. Just a warning, nothing more.’

‘From whom?’

‘I don’t know.’ Holmes twisted. He gasped. ‘I swear it, he never told me his name.’ Again the pressure was released. He sighed. ‘Have a heart, mate,’ he pleaded. ‘A man can’t hardly collect his thoughts in this state.’

Reluctantly, Holmes let go of the man’s arm and stood back to allow him to sit up. He did so slowly and sat there working his abused arm and wincing.

‘My name’s Ian MacTeague,’ he began, ‘and you’d know it if you’d spent much time in any theatre in Glasgow or Aberdeen eleven years ago. I’ve a knife-throwing act like none other in the realm, or at least I did until the girl I used made a wrong move, but that’s all in the Assizes records if you care to check it out. Since they let me go I’ve been making my way in every pub between here and the border, puncturing handkerchiefs and playing-cards at twenty feet for a bob a throw.

‘I met him last night in the Piper’s. A little fellow he was, scarce came to my collar on tippy-toe. Big head, narrow face, as evil an eye as any I’ve seen. Fair give me the willies, he did. I’d just bought supper with a hit square through the middle of the ace of trouble. He pulls me into a corner booth and offers me twenty quid if I’d do something for him.

‘“Twenty quid!” says I. “Who’s to be nobbled, then?”

‘“There’s no nobbling involved,” says he. “At least, not the kind you think. It’s to be a warning.”

‘“Of what sort?”

‘“A carve job.”

‘“What kind of carve job?” says I.

‘“As pretty a block letter ‘H’ as an artist like yourself can manage upon another man’s cheek,” says he.’

‘Good Lord!’ I ejaculated.

‘How long have you been following us?’ Holmes asked.

‘Just since this morning. This was the first chance I had to catch you without too many witnesses around.’

‘What were your instructions regarding Watson?’

‘I was told not to worry about him, as he is merely a buffoon you keep around for your own amusement.’

Holmes snorted. ‘My advice to you is that you heed not the advice of others. That “buffoon,” as you call him, nearly blew your head off.’

As he spoke, Holmes inclined his chin towards the revolver in my hand, which I had finally succeeded in bringing to light at the expense of my pocket lining. I felt little pride in the compliment, however, as I knew only too well that had the situation been in my hands my friend would be lying in the gutter now occupied by Ian MacTeague with a bloody initial carved upon his cheek.

‘Did this fellow mention where he was staying?’ Holmes asked the Scot.

MacTeague gave him the name of a hotel I knew well. ‘I was to go there and collect a bonus if I had accomplished my objective by this afternoon,’ he said. He paused. ‘I suppose that now I am to be turned over to the police.’

‘Is there any reason why you should not?’

He made no answer. Holmes sighed.

‘I am probably committing a grave error,’ he said. He signalled for the Scot to climb to his feet. Awkwardly he obeyed, eyeing longingly the knife on the pavement.

‘Oh, no, my friend.’ Placing a heel on the weapon’s wicked blade, the detective reached down, took hold of the haft, and with a sudden exertion snapped it off at the hilt. He then threw both halves into the filth in the gutter. ‘If you’ve the common sense that lies almost invariably beneath the pretensions of the born theatrical performer,’ he told the crestfallen knife thrower, ‘you’ll understand why I did that and won’t bother to replace it. There are honest means by which a man may make his way in this world provided that he’s up to the task. Watson, we are due elsewhere.’

The hotel to which we had been directed had once catered to an elegant trade, but the march of time and changing tastes had deteriorated both its accoutrements and its clientele, so that the fine old brass fixtures in the lobby had been allowed to turn a brackish green and thin spots marred the nap in the faded burgundy of the carpet. Still, it retained something of its former pride, manifest in the frosty manner of the well-dressed old man behind the desk when Holmes enquired about a guest named Edward Hyde.

‘There is no-one by that name staying at this hotel,’ he said after consulting the register. Gaunt almost to the point of transparency, his frame spoke of many meals missed in order that he might afford the fine clothes he wore. Rimless spectacles rode high astride his thin, bluish nose, through the lenses of which he managed to give the impression of looking down upon my companion, though in height he was at least two inches the detective’s inferior.

‘He won’t be registered under that name,’ Holmes explained, and proceeded to describe our quarry in detail. Recognition glimmered in the clerk’s watery eyes.

‘His name is Emil Cache,’ broke in the latter, before Holmes had finished. ‘He checked out two hours ago.’

‘May we see his room?’

‘If you’d like, but it’s been cleaned since his departure.’

The other made a sound of disgust and turned away. ‘He’s done it again, Watson,’ said he when we were back on the street. ‘Slipped in and out beneath our very noses. What’s more, he is laughing at us.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘
Cache
is merely the French for “hide.” If that isn’t rubbing our noses in it I don’t know what is. He’s a cunning beast, I’ll give him that. No small talent is involved in sneaking past the dozens of official eyes under whose scrutiny one must pass when crossing the border. I know, because I’ve done it myself.’

‘Where do you suppose he’s headed?’

‘Without doubt, back to London. Even a creature as wily as he cannot hope to finesse his way off the island, wanted as he is, and all game returns to the territory it knows best. This one fled back to his burrow as soon as he was assured his message would be delivered.’

I shuddered at the memory of what MacTeague had told us. ‘The man’s inhuman! To think that he would have you branded as the Americans do their cattle. He must be terribly afraid that we will learn his awful secret, whatever it is.’

‘Afraid? Hardly. Not Hyde.’

‘Then what did he hope to gain by having you disfigured?’

‘Upon the surface, triumph. Our knowledge of his character certainly does not preclude a capacity for sadism. Upon a deeper level...’ He fell silent, his brow knitted in thought.

‘What?’ said I.

‘I am not sure.’ Something in his expression told me that what he had said was not just a figure of speech. To this day I can count upon the fingers of one hand the times that Sherlock Holmes has appeared uncertain of his ground, and this was one of them. ‘Can it be,’ he said at length, ‘that after all this time we still do not know him? Can it be that beneath that wicked exterior, thick though it is, there is a desperate soul crying for help? I wonder.’ And with that he fell into one of those moody silences from which it was impossible for anyone upon this earth to extricate him.