Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Was Not Read online

  Accordingly, I applied a false, bulbous tip to my rather aquiline nose, affixed a ‘handlebar’ moustache and side whiskers with spirit gum and gave myself a slightly more ample, and, I hoped, prosperous looking figure with some padding. I keep a range of spurious visiting cards and found one in the name of “Doctor Shaw Higgins - F.R.C.S.” and hailed a cab to take me to the London Hospital. The cabby left me about a block away and adopting a pompous posture I sauntered to the porticoed front door. It was no difficult task to bluff my way to the chemistry laboratories on the pretext of replicating an analysis I had previously undertaken at Bart’s of certain blood samples which I had in a Gladstone bag.

  “My name is Dr Shaw Higgins,” said I, presenting my card. “I have been conducting research at Saint Bartholomew’s on a test which I confidently expect will supersede the old guaiacum test. Some question has been expressed in certain circles and I should like to conduct similar analysis here.”

  “Certainly,” came the reply. “I shall see that one of the junior doctors shows you to the laboratory.”

  I was duly escorted to the lab and, thanking the young doctor, I set about looking busy with vials and test tubes while unobtrusively observing Jekyll. He was earnestly occupied filtering a greenish liquid into a glass beaker. He then dipped a wooden tongue depressor into the vial and proceeded to taste it with the tip of his tongue. He shuddered involuntarily and made a few hasty pencil notes. I waited a few moments and then walked over, confident that my disguise would stand close scrutiny. Continuing the pompous pose that had gained me entry I introduced myself.

  “Doctor Shaw Higgins. I am working on a new blood test. Mark well the term “Shaw Higgins Test”, it will one day soon be a standard in our profession. May I ask what you are working on?”

  “You may not,” said he. “My research is my own business. Good day, sir!”

  With this curt dismissal he packed up his accoutrements into his medical bag and walked to the sink to wash his hands. I had just enough time to surreptitiously remove the next blank sheet from the notepad he had been working on, and I memorised the odd assortment of chemical bottles he had been working on before he made his disgruntled exit. Then, allowing Jekyll enough time to clear the building and pausing just long enough to remove my makeup in the hospital lavatory, I departed myself.

  Returning by cab to 221 Baker Street I mounted the stairs and with a brief greeting to Jekyll replaced my Gladstone and taking an innocuous volume by Eckermann on the religions of the West Indies settled into the basket chair. After about three quarters of an hour Mrs Hudson knocked on the door with a pair of partridges for supper which we ate in comparative silence. I made a couple of token efforts at conversation to maintain my façade of a harmless eccentric with a preoccupation with criminal studies but met with little response from Jekyll. After lingering a while over my coffee I excused myself and retired to my room. I still sought the elusive half-memory, but neither tobacco nor quiet contemplation illuminated it.

  The next day provided progress as I was asked to return to Scotland Yard and rejoined Newcomen to interview the servant girl who had been witness to the murder of Sir Danvers Carew. She gave her name as Molly Riley and explained that while walking home late one night she had seen the attack.

  “He was an ’orrible little man,” she said. “Quite turned my blood cold just to look at ’im.”

  “You describe him as ‘little’. How tall would you say he was?”

  “No taller ’an me,” she replied, and she would have been barely five feet in height.

  “ ’Orribly ugly too,” she continued, “like some kind of wicked gnome.”

  “And of what age?” I asked.

  “Youngish. Five an’ twenty p’raps.”

  Inspector Newcomen summoned a police sketch artist but despite her best efforts Miss Riley seemed curiously unable to describe the man she had seen in any specific detail despite saying that his “ ’orrid face” filled her nightmares. There seemed little point in continuing the interview further.

  “At least she should be able to identify the rogue if only we can find him,” said Newcomen as we parted.

  In the cab back to Baker Street the nagging memory that had been bothering me at last took proper form. It is my practice to docket references in newspapers and journals to criminal activities that I might need to refer to in future. The girl’s description was strongly reminiscent of a report which I had noted a year earlier of a youthful female who was trampled by a young man in Cavendish Place. The assailant simply walked right over the young girl, who had been rolling a hoop, rather than deviate from his path. Beyond the physical description there also seemed the implication that this strange young man possessed an ungovernable temper.

  I expected Jekyll to be out when I returned home but found him on the chaise longue cradling his forehead.

  “You look unwell, Jekyll,” said I.

  “Yes…I am rather. Besides, I am expecting my friend Lanyon momentarily.”

  I politely excused myself to allow him exclusive use of the parlour and retired to my bedroom where I prepared to eavesdrop using an empty tumbler pressed to the wall as an ear trumpet. I hardly needed to have done so, for after his arrival Dr Lanyon’s voice became quite loud and heated.

  “You know I considered your theories preposterous and your experiments upon yourself positively dangerous!” said he.

  Dr Jekyll seemed unmoved.

  “You made your feelings perfectly clear.”

  “And now,” continued Lanyon. “Utterson tells me you have altered your will to make some total stranger heir to your not inconsiderable assets. Have you taken leave of your senses, man?”

  “Mr Hyde is an old acquaintance,” replied Jekyll, in tones of reason, “and he has my complete confidence.”

  The next comments were then delivered by Jekyll in a tone of utter coldness. “It is none of your concern nor Utterson’s. I’d thank you both to keep out of my affairs.”

  I heard Lanyon gasp.

  “Good day to you, Hastie,” said Jekyll, unmistakeably dis­missing Lanyon. I could make out Dr Lanyon sputtering unin­telligibly followed by the sound of the door being firmly shut.

  I allowed half an hour during which time I took the unused top page I had taken from Jekyll’s note book and by gently rubbing a soft-leaded pencil across the impressions I was able to make out some of Jekyll’s words, “…refined solution…why disparate personalities exist…side by side…turn back…” I pondered on these tantalising snippets until I heard Dr Jekyll’s tread mounting the steps to his bedroom. I gave him a further five minutes before returning to the sitting-room to consult my legal directory. There was only one Utterson, J. G. of that ilk, and his practice was in Gaunt Street.

  Once again I employed my talent for imposture. Disguised as a cleric I approached Utterson on the pretext of wishing to consult him about a client of his, a Mr Hyde, whom I wished to thank for a good deed. Utterson explained to me that Edward Hyde was not a client of his but that he was not at liberty to reveal his address. It was obviously absurd to expect Utterson to divulge the contents of Jekyll’s will or why he had chosen someone like Hyde as his heir but now I had Mr Hyde’s forename; “Edward”: Whatever secret Jekyll was keeping or how it related to the mysterious Mr Hyde I was at least making some progress. But as I left Utterson he muttered Hyde’s name, and added a phrase that absolutely startled me, and I realized the visit had delivered far more than incremental progress.

  “Little gargoyle!”

  My concerns about my fellow tenant’s behaviour were second­ary to my investigation into the Carew murder, yet now my instincts were increasingly leading me to wonder whether there might not be some connection between the two matters.

  I resolved to telegraph Newcomen to ask whether the Yard had any record of Edward Hyde. The reply came back that Mr Hyde of Soho had been named as a suspect in the Carew
murder case following information from lawyer Utterson. It was encouraging to have my suspicions about a link between Hyde and the Carew murder confirmed.

  I consulted a Post Office directory to ascertain the Soho address of Edward Hyde, hailed a cab and made my way thither without delay. I had no trouble finding the unprepossessing two-storey house, for a milling crowd of onlookers immediately marked the spot. I paid the jarvey and leapt down. Two uniformed constables were without, one calming the crowd. I presented my card to the other and asked to see Inspector Newcomen and was shown up.

  The inside of the first floor rooms could not have offered a greater contrast to the mean, shabby exterior. It was tastefully furnished with fine paper on the walls and a number of framed paintings hung from the picture rails. It seemed clear to me that Mr Hyde was a man of some culture rather at odds with the effect he had on others.

  Newcomen showed me a closet in which he had found the heavy stick with which Sir Danvers had been brutally done to death. “As you can see, you were quite right about the murder weapon. And that it was broken in the attack.”

  I nodded my appreciation of the implied compliment to my powers and asked the Inspector how Utterson had been able to direct them to Hyde’s abode.

  “Utterson, who is a respected Prosecutor with whom the Yard has had frequent dealings, had reason to suspect this Hyde of being a blackmailer in consequence of past dealings they’d had. The description of both Hyde and the stick used to murder Carew led Utterson to contact us.”

  “I see.”

  “A number of Hyde’s papers have been found burnt in the fireplace. We found the butt of a green chequebook…”

  “And a few charred corners of letters in Hyde’s hand,” I observed.

  “We looked at those but there’s not enough there to make any sense.”

  “There would also seem to be the remnants of some pub­lications of a rather lewd nature.”

  “Very racy stuff from what we can make out. There’s a call for these from among the servant classes.”

  And not only among the servant classes, I thought.

  “Is there anything to indicate this Hyde worked as a servant?”

  “We have no notion as to his employment.”

  I investigated the rooms further, finding nothing of note save some medicinal bottles and a jar of powder I recognised as cocaine. I suggested to Newcomen that he might find it worth his while to have the contents of the bottles analysed.

  “You mean if we find out what ailments Hyde suffered from it might help us to trace him?”

  “Something of the sort.”

  There being little more for me to do, I thanked Newcomen and returned to Baker Street.

  I have made a study of graphology and am guilty of a monograph on the topic. I took out the notepad sheet with the impressions of Jekyll’s writing and recalled the charred remnants Newcomen had showed me of Hyde’s script. There was a marked similarity between the two, notably in the extended tail of the letters ‘y’ and ‘k’ and the construction of the lower case ‘x’.

  I mused as to whether both Jekyll and Hyde shared the same teacher or even more likely, given their apparent ages, they could possibly be father and son despite the lack of physical resemblance. Could this then account for the secrecy Jekyll maintained about the other man to his friends? Worse, was Mr Hyde mentally ill? This might explain his reputed violent behaviour. I strongly suspected that the solution to the Sir Danvers Carew matter would lead me to also resolving the strange case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.

  The next morning, again without eating breakfast, Jekyll left early. Leaving a note to Mrs Hudson apologising for the uneaten meals I set out after Jekyll. I soon spied him a short distance in front of me so I slowed down, allowing me to duck out of sight should he look around, but he seemed so single-minded that he never once glanced behind. It had snowed overnight so following his footprints was simplicity itself. Jekyll soon turned aside from the thoroughfare and took to the laneways and alleys. Following his footprints I became aware of a gradual change in his gait. His stride grew shorter and his footprints became more splayed; it appeared Jekyll might be feeling ill.

  Another change in his footprints was more inexplicable. They seemed to grow shallower, although a quick peek over my shoulder showed no similar effect on my own. I was in the process of reasoning a cause for this effect, as I turned a corner into a courtyard, and I was stopped in my very tracks by the sight, not of Dr Jekyll—of whose foot prints I did not believe I had once lost sight—but of a small, misshapen man who could only be the mysterious Mr Hyde.

  He sat, his head slumped in hirsute hands, his clothes oversized and loose on his diminutive frame. I could only conclude that I had somehow lost track of Jekyll, perhaps when he had turned aside from the main road, but perhaps Jekyll had been meaning to meet this other individual. Hyde’s odd appearance was likely due to his being unable to return to his rooms in Soho; he had been compelled to steal the clothing of someone taller.

  Be that as it may, if this were indeed Hyde, then it behoved me to hold him for the police. I walked over to the little man and said, “Edward Hyde?” He looked up in surprise, then his eyes narrowed. “I have reason to believe, Mr Hyde, that you are sought by the police. I propose to hold you until the constabulary arrive.”

  I always carry a police whistle and I gave a short blast but before I could give a second Hyde sprang at me with a speed for which should not have given him credit.

  But that was nothing compared to his unexpected strength. I am no weakling and an amateur pugilist but Hyde knocked me off my feet with little effort. He aimed a kick at my head but my reflexes were quicker than those of the aging Carew had been and I just dodged his boot. I was grateful that he no longer had a heavy stick for though I am accomplished in singlestick I would still have been hard pressed to hold my own.

  In any event, the blast of my whistle had brought a pair of constables with truncheons drawn and Hyde took to his heels. One of the constables took off after the shrunken brute but the other stopped to check that I was unharmed.

  “After him!” I bellowed. “He is wanted for the Carew killing!” as I struggled to right myself on the snowy footpath.

  The second constable took off after the first and I eventually was on my feet and forging ahead when the constable reappeared supporting his fellow who was now without his helmet and bleeding from a wound in his scalp. Winded though I was, I set off in pursuit of Hyde but lost his trail when it rejoined the High Street. He had vanished.

  Somewhat dispirited I returned home—after pausing for a small brandy at the first hostelry I found—to find Jekyll in the parlour; looking pale and a little dishevelled.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “I have had bad news,” said he. “That friend of mine, who visited earlier, Lanyon, is dead. His heart suddenly failed him. Some shock triggered it.”

  I offered my condolences but Jekyll waved them aside.

  “I must see Utterson,” said he, more to himself than to me and walked out the door.

  This was possibly my best chance to answer all the questions surrounding Jekyll. I had no time to adopt a disguise so I clad myself in as anonymous an outfit as I could find, grabbed a scarf of neutral hue and tied the flaps of my travelling cap over my ears to obscure my features. Jekyll was hailing a cab. “Gaunt Street,” he called to the driver. I have trained myself to perch on the back of a Hansom cab and this I did, jumping down before the cab pulled up.

  Stepping into a doorway I wrapped the scarf around my lower face, it still being wintry though the snow had stopped. I could not use impersonation to trick my way into Utterson’s office as I had done on my previous visit so I trusted that my own card would be sufficient for me to at least gain entry.

  Utterson’s clerk showed me to a small antechamber outside his office. I could see Jekyll’s shadow pacing to and fro
and could make out snatches of what Jekyll was saying, for his agitated state had caused him to raise his voice. Utterson seemed to be attempting to placate the doctor. “A letter? What letter?” cried Jekyll. Then spoke Utterson again to which Jekyll responded in tones of greater reason.

  “My death or disappearance? What did Hastie mean by that…I know I made clear in my will…”

  Another pause followed, after which Jekyll’s voice concluded “Goodbye, Gabe. I doubt that we shall meet again.”

  I held a newspaper to obscure my face though Jekyll, when he emerged, was so distraught that he gave me no heed. I waited as long as I could lest he turn on the stairs and see me, and hurried down the steps, taking them two at a time, but Jekyll was already off in a cab this time and I was not close enough behind him to jump aboard and cling on the rear of the vehicle as I had before.

  The frustration of the moment was punctuated by a newspaper boy crying “Carew killer eludes police!”

  My best course seemed to be to return to Baker Street post haste, so I hailed a hansom. In the cab I had the opportunity to try assembling the various pieces of the puzzle, though the resulting picture seemed to defy all reason. It was clear that Jekyll had been doing experiments upon himself. I have done so myself on occasion but only when I was fairly confident of the outcome. Henry Jekyll seemed to have no such certainty but rather was using himself as a human lab rat. His incredible motive appeared to be the goal of attempting to take the conflicting tendencies in all men for good and evil, for virtue and vice and to isolate in his own body all that was noble and selfless and to confine all that is licentious and vicious in his associate, the young Edward Hyde. Yet how could he treat the young fellow in such a way if he himself embodied nobility? Such behaviour was selfishness itself.