The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: Dr Jekyll & Mr Holmes (6 page)

‘There is the corner and that, I believe, is Stunner’s,’ the detective observed, pointing out the neglected facade of a public-house two doors down. ‘Would you object to a bracer of whiskey-and-soda before we return to Baker Street?’

I said that I would not, and we struck off in that direction.

‘Are you not going to tell me what you learnt?’ I asked impatiently after we had gone half a dozen steps in silence.

He rubbed his hands together. ‘Just enough to make me wish for more. I know, for instance, that Hyde has no source of income aside from his famous friend’s largesse, and that he has been something less than frugal where those gains are concerned. Moreover, his taste in women runs towards the lowest classes of society and is on a par only with his preference in entertainment, both of which are considerably meaner than his over-all standard of living, which is princely. On a more physical level, he is five feet, one inch in height, is slightly pigeontoed, and smokes Cavendish tobacco. Everything else about him remains a mystery.’

This astonishing compendium of facts, gleaned from so brief an examination of Hyde’s effects, filled me with curiosity, but before I could question my companion upon how he had reached his conclusions we had stepped across the threshold into the public-house and the time had come to hold my tongue.

What struck me first about the establishment was the conviction that the owner was trying to save money on gas. So few of the fixtures were lit that, until my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I literally had difficulty in distinguishing my hand before my face. Even then I was forced to rely upon Holmes’s unique ability to see in the dark in order to reach the bar by allowing him to lead me by the arm between the tables and chairs. It was a large, low-ceilinged room, redolent of the usual ale and sawdust, and crowded to capacity even at that early hour. The atmosphere was a confusion of voices chattering in many different tongues, some raised in jollification, others edged with anger, still others sunken into the monotonous rumble of utter boredom. Behind the bar a solid block of a man with great swinging jowls and a head of thick dark hair which seemed to grow straight up from his brows with no forehead in between broke off his conversation with an inebriate who was slumped across from him and turned to face us as we approached.

‘What’ll it be, mates?’ Despite his approximation of East End slang, it was obvious from his ponderous accent that the man was German.

‘I should like a whisky-and-soda, and my friend will have the same,’ said Holmes. When the drinks were poured: ‘I do not see my other friend around this evening, and yet I am given to understand that he frequents this establishment. Has Edward Hyde been in of late?’

A look of absolute loathing twisted the German’s heavy features into a grotesque caricature. He seized a not-too-clean rag from beneath the bar and proceeded to polish the marred top with savage movements of his huge right hand. ‘Not lately, mates,’ he growled. ‘And if you’re friends of his, I suggest that you drink up and get out. I’ll brook no trouble in my place of business.’

Holmes raised his eyebrows. ‘He has been troublesome?’

‘You see that mirror?’ Stürmer — if that was his name — jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of a cracked mirror behind the bar, over which was pasted a sign reading NO CREDIT. ‘Last time he was in there was the devil of a row, and before I could put a stop to it some bloke chucked a full mug of beer at Hyde, he ducked, and there’s the result. I threw the lot of them out and said that if I ever saw any of them in here again I’d bend my billiard-cue over their skulls.’

‘Did Hyde start it?’

‘Well, not so’s you could blame him for it. Some little French clerk with a bag on took one look at him and called him a name I wouldn’t care to repeat to my mother in Hamburg. Hyde snarled something back — I didn’t hear it, he has this whispery growl — and that’s when the trouble started. He’s bad news, that one is. I’m glad to be rid of him.’

Holmes thanked him and paid for our drinks. At his suggestion, we picked up our glasses and left the bar for a table in the corner which had just been vacated by a pair of drunken slatterns.

‘Upon the face of it,’ said Holmes after we had sat down, ‘it would be a capital mistake for Hyde to make a bid for public office. He is not famous for his popularity.’

‘I am burning with curiosity,’ said I. ‘You and I saw the same things in Hyde’s rooms a little while ago, and yet I admit that I was unable to determine even a small part of the things which you learnt about him.

He smiled and sipped at his drink. ‘Of course you were. You are a man of more than a few talents, Watson, but observation and deduction do not number among them. And yet the clues were there, if you knew what to look for.’

‘Then perhaps you will explain how you divined that Hyde has no income apart from that provided by Jekyll, and that he has not been frugal with it.’

‘I take no pride in that conclusion, for it was a surface matter, with very little deduction involved. You will remember that I found his account-book.’

‘You whistled once whilst reading it.’

‘I had every reason to react in that fashion. His balance is far from small, and the records show that he has made substantial deposits at irregular intervals. That they were substantial, and that the entries were irregular, precludes the probability of their being wages, which are seldom so large and are paid out regularly. From what the landlady told us of his movements, it is unlikely that he is gainfully employed. That the deposits were the results of investments is also unlikely, since the sums were in round figures, with no odd pounds, shillings, or pence left over. Gifts of money are usually made in round figures. Further, since all of the sums were similar, I decided that they were the gift of one person. I confess that my choice of Jekyll as the giver is pure surmise, but under the circumstances he seems the most likely candidate.’

‘And his lack of frugality?’

‘His preference in dress is costly, which I admit is hardly a sign of reckless spending; but when I go through a man’s trash basket and find that he has thrown away two perfectly good, though soiled, silk shirts rather than take the trouble of having them laundered, I am tempted to think him something of a spendthrift.’

‘Well, that seems simple enough. But what of his taste in women and entertainment, and his princely standard of living?’

‘As for women, the cast-off shirts which I mentioned were smudged with two different shades of rouge, both of which can be had in any of the shabbier women’s shops near the waterfront. I have made study of the many different types of cosmetics used by the fair sex, and toy with the idea of someday producing a monograph upon the subject. His choice of entertainment I judged mean as well after finding in the basket no fewer than nine ticket-stubs from one of more our
risqué
music-halls off Buck’s Row. A man who would return eight times must like what he sees. Turning to his standard of living, that is evident in his casual treatment of his wardrobe — the shirts again — and in the many withdrawals which he has made from his banking-account to finance his way of life.’

‘That leaves his height, the fact that he is pigeon-toed, and the tobacco he smokes.’

He smiled. ‘Come now, Watson. Surely you saw that only a man who fits the dimensions I quoted would be comfortable in clothes the size of Hyde’s, and you could not have failed to note that the soles of his boots were worn more on the outside edges of the toes than anywhere else, indicating an inward twist.’

I flushed in my embarrassment. ‘I did not, but I should have. And his tobacco?’

‘Cavendish, or my monograph upon the distinction between the various tobaccos based upon their ashes was written in vain. The greenish-grey traces which I found upon the edge of the carpet could belong to no other. But what, in the name of the devil!’

The cause of this ejaculation was the dramatic entrance of a singular figure into the public-house: a minuscule, almost dwarfish man dressed in evening clothes, complete with shining top hat and a scarlet-lined opera cape which flowed behind him as he burst through the door and settled about his heels as he stood in the middle of the room, gripping his cane in one hand and casting savage glances into every corner. His head was large, his face lean and wolfish, marked by flaring nostrils and a pair of eyebrows which soared upwards from the bridge of his nose like bat’s-wings, to disappear into the shadows beneath the brim of his hat. Aside from those points, it was an unremarkable face, save for the fact that I hated it upon sight.

I like to think that I am a man who does not allow himself to be carried away by his emotions, and yet it shames me to admit that, just as the sorrowful countenance of G. J. Utterson had won my sympathy before he had even stated his problem, the appearance of this stranger aroused a hatred in me such as I had not felt since a bullet from a Ghazi rifle had nearly taken my life at the Battle of Mai-wand three years before. It was a primitive emotion, having no basis in reason, and because of that it was unshakeable.

‘Where are the felons?’ he roared.

For all of its volume, his voice remained a harsh, insinuating whisper, like a file rasping against rusted steel. Every eye in the place was upon him. His murderous gaze swept the room, finally falling upon Holmes and me, whereupon it took on an even more dangerous glint.

‘There they are, the cursed scoundrels!’

In two leaps he was at our table. For a tense moment he stood looking from one to the other of us, his breath passing sibilantly through his arched nostrils. ‘Which of you is the ringleader?’ he demanded.

‘You, I take it, are Edward Hyde,’ said Holmes, rising. He towered over the new-comer by nearly a foot.

‘Ah, so you are the one behind it!’ The small man took a cautious step backwards, balancing his cane in one hand like a bludgeon. He had short hands, muscular and covered with hair; I was reminded, if I may bring forth yet another beast for comparison, of the paws of an ape. ‘You and your companion entered my rooms tonight without my permission, and do not attempt to deny it. I smelt the burnt oil of the lamp you used. When I confronted my landlady with the knowledge, she broke down and told me everything. She described you both in detail and said that you walked off in this direction.’

‘I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague, Dr. John H. Watson. We have long been eager to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hyde. Would you care to join us in a whisky-and-soda whilst we discuss this like gentlemen?’

‘Gentlemen? You are common burglars! Sir, I demand satisfaction!’ he raised his cane.

I leapt to my feet, prepared to come to my friend’s defence. He shook his head and waved me back.

‘Thank you, Watson, but this is my affair.’ He assumed a boxer’s stance.

For a charged moment it appeared that the two might actually come to blows; there was a scraping of chairs as the customers seated near us vacated their tables, and Holmes and Hyde squared off beside our own in the manner of warring rams. But before either of them could make a move Stürmer came striding out from behind the bar bearing a two-foot length of loaded billiard-cue and brought it smashing down onto the table between them with a report like an explosion. The noise made both of them jump.

‘I said no rows and, by God, I meant it!’ The German’s booming voice set every glass in the room to rattling. He caught my eye. ‘Take your friend and go. I’ll hold back Hyde till you’re out of sight. After that, whatever happens don’t concern me.
Schnell!
’

Holmes and I needed no further invitation. We picked up our hats and sticks from the table and headed for the door whilst Stürmer held a fuming Hyde at bay with his club.

‘You see the value of foresight, old fellow,’ said Holmes as we stepped into the hansom waiting around the corner. ‘When one sets out to commit a criminal act, an escape well planned is its own reward.’

It was his last attempt to place a light face upon the night’s activities. On the way home the detective sank into a deeply brooding frame of mind. ‘Dark forces at work here, Watson,’ said he, staring out into the gloom that closed in upon the cab.

I made no reply, for I was seeking to duplicate the methods of my friend in analysing my strangely primitive reaction to the character of Edward Hyde. The threats which he had uttered were quite beside the point, since I had formed my opinion before I was even aware of his identity, or of whom his anger was directed against. Try as I might, however, I succeeded only in recalling the following nursery-rhyme from my childhood, which until that evening had always seemed the merest bit of nonsense, but which had now taken on a most profound meaning:

I do not love thee, Dr. Fell,

The reason why I cannot tell;

But this I know and know full well,

I do not love thee, Dr. Fell.

Four