Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Роберт Льюис Стивенсон
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From these embers the inspector disinterred the butt end of a green cheque-book, which had resisted the action of the fire; the other half of the stick was found behind the door; and as this clinched his suspicions, the officer declared himself delighted. A visit to the bank, where several thousand pounds were found to be lying to the murderer’s credit, completed his gratification.
‘You may depend upon it, sir,’ he told Mr. Utterson: ‘I have him in my hand. He must have lost his head, or he never would have left the stick or, above all, burned the cheque-book. Why, money’s life to the man. We have nothing to do but wait for him at the bank, and get out the handbills.’
This last, however, was not so easy of accomplishment; for Mr. Hyde had numbered few familiars—even the master of the servant-maid had only seen him twice; his family could nowhere be traced; he had never been photographed; and the few who could describe him differed widely, as common observers will. Only on one point were they agreed; and that was the haunting sense of unexpressed deformity with which the fugitive impressed his beholders.
IT was late in the afternoon, when Mr. Utterson found his way to Dr. Jekyll’s door, where he was at once admitted by Poole, and carried down by the kitchen offices and across a yard which had once been a garden, to the building which was indifferently known as the laboratory or the dissecting-rooms. The doctor had bought the house from the heirs of a celebrated surgeon; and his own tastes being rather chemical than anatomical, had changed the destination of the block at the bottom of the garden. It was the first time that the lawyer had been received in that part of his friend’s quarters; and he eyed the dingy windowless structure with curiosity, and gazed round with a distasteful sense of strangeness as he crossed the theatre, once crowded with eager students and now lying gaunt and silent, the tables laden with chemical apparatus, the floor strewn with crates and littered with packing straw, and the light falling dimly through the foggy cupola. At the further end, a flight of stairs mounted to a door covered with red baize; and through this, Mr. Utterson was at last received into the doctor’s cabinet. It was a large room, fitted round with glass presses, furnished, among other things, with a cheval-glass and a business-table, and looking out upon the court by three dusty windows barred with iron. The fire burned in the grate; a lamp was set lighted on the chimney shelf, for even in the houses the fog began to lie thickly; and there, close up to the warmth, sat Dr. Jekyll, looking deadly sick. He did not rise to meet his visitor, but held out a cold hand and bade him welcome in a changed voice.
‘And now,’ said Mr. Utterson, as soon as Poole had left them, ‘you have heard the news?’
The doctor shuddered. ‘They were crying it in the square,’ he said. ‘I heard them in my dining-room.’
‘One word,’ said the lawyer. ‘Carew was my client, but so are you; and I want to know what I am doing. You have not been mad enough to hide this fellow?’
‘Utterson, I swear to God,’ cried the doctor, ‘I swear to God I will never set eyes on him again. I bind my honour to you that I am done with him in this world. It is all at an end. And indeed he does not want my help; you do not know him as I do; he is safe, he is quite safe; mark my words, he will never more be heard of.’
The lawyer listened gloomily; he did not like his friend’s feverish manner. ‘You seem pretty sure of him,’ said he; ‘and for your sake, I hope you may be right. If it came to a trial, your name might appear.’
‘I am quite sure of him,’ replied Jekyll; ‘I have grounds for certainty that I cannot share with any one. But there is one thing on which you may advise me. I have—I have received a letter; and I am at a loss whether I should show it to the police. I should like to leave it in your hands, Utterson; you would judge wisely, I am sure; I have so great a trust in you.’
‘You fear, I suppose, that it might lead to his detection?’ asked the lawyer.
‘No,’ said the other. ‘I cannot say that I care what becomes of Hyde; I am quite done with him. I was thinking of my own character, which this hateful business has rather exposed.’
Utterson ruminated awhile; he was surprised at his friend’s selfishness, and yet relieved by it. ‘Well,’ said he, at last, ‘let me see the letter.’
The letter was written in an odd, upright hand and signed ‘Edward Hyde’: and it signified, briefly enough, that the writer’s benefactor, Dr. Jekyll, whom he had long so unworthily repaid for a thousand generosities, need labour under no alarm for his safety, as he had means of escape on which he placed a sure dependence. The lawyer liked this letter well enough; it put a better colour on the intimacy than he had looked for, and he blamed himself for some of his past suspicions.
‘Have you the envelope?’ he asked.
‘I burned it,’ replied Jekyll, ‘before I thought what I was about. But it bore no postmark. The note was handed in.’
‘Shall I keep this and sleep upon it?’ asked Utterson.
‘I wish you to judge for me entirely,’ was the reply. ‘I have lost confidence in myself.’
‘Well, I shall consider,’ returned the lawyer. ‘And now one word more: it was Hyde who dictated the terms in your will about that disappearance?’
The doctor seemed seized with a qualm of faintness; he shut his mouth tight and nodded.
‘I knew it,’ said Utterson. ‘He meant to murder you. You have had a fine escape.’
‘I have had what is far more to the purpose,’ returned the doctor solemnly: ‘I have had a lesson—O God, Utterson, what a lesson I have had!’ And he covered his face for a moment with his hands.
On his way out, the lawyer stopped and had a word or two with Poole. ‘By the by,’ said he, ‘there was a letter handed in today: what was the messenger like?’ But Poole was positive nothing had come except by post; ‘and only circulars by that,’ he added.
This news sent off the visitor with his fears renewed. Plainly the letter had come by the laboratory door; possibly, indeed, it had been written in the cabinet; and, if that were so, it must be differently judged, and handled with the more caution. The news-boys, as he went, were crying themselves hoarse along the footways: ‘Special edition. Shocking murder of an M.P.’ That was the funeral oration of one friend and client; and he could not help a certain apprehension lest the good name of another should be sucked down in the eddy of the scandal. It was, at least, a ticklish decision that he had to make; and, self-reliant as he was by habit, he began to cherish a longing for advice. It was not to be had directly; but perhaps, he thought, it might be fished for.
Presently after, he sat on one side of his own hearth, with Mr. Guest, his head clerk, upon the other, and midway between, at a nicely calculated distance from the fire, a bottle of a particular old wine that had long dwelt unsunned in the foundations of his house. The fog still slept on the wing above the drowned city, where the lamps glimmered like carbuncles; and through the muffle and smother of these fallen clouds, the procession of the town’s life was still rolling in through the great arteries with a sound as of a mighty wind. But the room was gay with firelight. In the bottle the acids were long ago resolved; the imperial dye had softened with time, as the colour grows richer in stained windows; and the glow of hot autumn afternoons on hillside vineyards was ready to be set free and to disperse the fogs of London. Insensibly the lawyer melted. There was no man from whom he kept fewer secrets than Mr. Guest; and he was not always sure that he kept as many as he meant. Guest had often been on business to the doctor’s; he knew Poole; he could scarce have failed to hear of Mr. Hyde’s familiarity about the house; he might draw conclusions: was it not as well, then, that he should see a letter which put that mystery to rights? and above all, since Guest, being a great student and critic of handwriting, would consider the step natural and obliging? The clerk,