Chapter Text
Mr. Utterson’s nerves gave a jerk that nearly threw him from his balance, but he recollected his courage and followed the butler into the laboratory building through the surgical theater. Here, Poole motioned for him to stand on one side and listen; while he himself set down the candle and gathered his courage. He mounted the steps and knocked with a somewhat uncertain hand on the cabinet door.
“Mr. Utterson, sir, asking to see you,” he called; and even as he did so, once more violently signed to the lawyer to give ear.
A voice answered from within: “Tell him I cannot see anyone,” it said complainingly.
“Thank you, sir,” said Poole, with a note of something like triumph in his voice; and taking up his candle, led Mr. Utterson back across the yard and into the great kitchen, where the fire was out and the beetles were leaping on the floor.
“Sir,” he said, looking Mr. Utterson in the eyes, “Was that my master’s voice?”
“It seems changed,” replied the lawyer, very pale.
“Changed? Well, yes, I think so,” said the butler. “Have I been twenty years in this man’s house, to be deceived about his voice? No sir; master has been made away with. He was made away with eight days ago when I heard him cry out upon the name of God. Who is in there instead of him is a thing that cries to Heaven, Mr. Utterson!”
“This is a very strange tale, Poole; this is rather a wild tale my man,” said Mr. Utterson, biting his finger. “Suppose it were as you suggest; that Dr. Jekyll has been — well, murdered, what could induce the murderer to stay?”
“Well, Mr. Utterson, you are a hard man to satisfy,” said Poole. “All this last week he — or it — has been crying night and day for some sort of medicine but cannot get it. It was sometimes his way — master’s, that is — to write his orders on a sheet of paper and throw it down the stairs. We’ve had nothing else this week. Nothing but papers and a closed door. Every day, even twice or three times in the same day, there have been orders and complaints, and I have been sent flying to all the wholesale chemists in town. Every time I brought the stuff back, there would be another paper telling me to return it, because it was not pure, and another order to a different firm. This drug is badly wanted, bitterly bad, sir, whatever for.”
“Do you still have any of these papers?” asked Mr. Utterson.
Poole felt in his pocket and handed out a crumpled note, which the lawyer, bending nearer to the candle, carefully examined. Its contents ran thus: “Dr. Jekyll assures that their last sample is impure and quite useless for his present purpose. Dr. J. purchased a somewhat large quantity from Messrs. M. He now begs them to search with most sedulous care, and should any of the same quality be left, forward it to him at once. Expense is no consideration. The importance of this to Dr. J. can hardly be exaggerated.” So far the letter had run composedly enough, but here with a sudden splutter of the pen, the writer’s emotion had broken loose. “For God’s sake,” he added, “please.”
“This is a strange note.” said Mr. Utterson
“The man at Maw’s was angry, sir, and he threw it back to me like it was dirt,” returned Poole.
“This is unquestionably the doctor’s hand?” resumed the lawyer.
“I thought it looked like it,” said the servant rather sulkily; and then, with another voice, “But it matters not,” he said. “I’ve seen him!”
“Seen him?” repeated Mr. Utterson. “Well?”
“When I came into the theater from the garden. It seemed he had slipped out to look for this drug for the cabinet door was open, and there he was at the far end of the room digging among the crates. He looked up when I came in, gave a cry, and whipped upstairs into the cabinet. It was only for one minute that I saw him, but the hair stood upon my head like quills. Sir, if that was my master, why did he wear a mask? If it was my master, why did he cry out like a rat and run from me? I have served him long enough.”
“These are all very strange circumstances,” said Mr. Utterson, “but I think I’m beginning to understand. Your master, Poole, is seized by a dream that tortures and deforms the sufferer. Hence the alteration of his voice; hence the mask and the avoidance of his friends; hence his eagerness to find this drug.”
“Sir,” intervened the butler, turning pale, “that thing was not my master, and that is the truth. My master is a tall, fine build of a man…this was more of a dwarf.” Utterson attempted to protest. “Sir!” cried Poole, “do you think I do not know my master after twenty years? Do you think I do not know where his head comes to the cabinet door, where I saw him every morning of my life? No sir, that thing in the mask was never Dr. Jekyll — God knows what it was — but it was never Dr. Jekyll. I deeply believe there was murder done.”
“Poole,” snapped the lawyer, “if you say that, it will become my duty to make certain. As much as I desire to spare Dr. Jekyll’s feelings, I shall consider it my duty to break in that door.”
“Mr. Utterson, that’s talking!” cried the butler.
“And now comes the second question,” resumed Utterson: “Who is going to do it?”
“Why, you, sir!” was the undaunted reply.
“Me?!” Shrieked the lawyer
“Quiet, sir. There is an ax in the theater,” continued Poole; “and you might take the kitchen poker for yourself.”
The lawyer took the weighty instrument into his hand. He looked up, “I am placing myself into a position of peril”
“You may say so, sir, indeed,” returned the butler.
“Well, then we should be frank,” said the other. “This masked figure that you saw, did you recognise it?”
“Well, sir, the creature went so quick and was so hunched over that I could hardly respond honestly,” was the answer. “But if you are suggesting Mr. Hyde? Yes, I think it was! It was much of the same structure and had the same quick, light way with it; And who else could have got in by the laboratory door? At the time of the murder he still had the key with him. But I must ask, have you ever encountered this man Mr. Utterson?”
“Yes,” said the lawyer, “I once spoke with him.”
“Then you must know as well as the rest of us that there was something strange about that gentleman. I don’t know how else to say it, sir.”
“I believe I felt something of what you describe,” said Mr. Utterson
“Quite so, sir,” returned Poole. “Well, when that thing jumped from the chemicals and whipped into the cabinet, a feeling went down my spine like ice. I know it’s not evidence, Mr. Utterson, but a man has his feelings, and I give you my word it was that devil Mr. Hyde!”
The lawyer felt his heart sink at the realization. “My fears are the same. Truly, I believe you. I believe dear Henry was killed, and I believe his murderer is still lurking in that damned room…I am going to force my way into the cabinet. If anything should really be amiss or seek to escape by the back, you must take your post at the laboratory door. I'll give you ten minutes.”
As Poole left, the lawyer looked at his watch. “And now,” he said, “I must go to mine.”
Taking the poker under his arm, Utterson made his way into the yard. The night had banked over the moon, and it was now quite dark. The wind tossed the light of the candle to and fro about his steps, until he came into the shelter of the theater, where he sat down silently to wait. London hummed solemnly all around; but nearer at hand, the stillness was only broken by the sounds of movement along the cabinet floor.
The steps fell lightly and oddly, with a certain swing. It was different from the heavy creaking tread of Henry Jekyll.
As the ten minutes drew to an end, Utterson grabbed the ax from under a stack of packing straw. The candle was set upon the nearest table to light him to the attack. He drew near with shallow breaths to where that impatient foot was still going up and down, up and down, in the quiet of the night.
“Henry,” cried Utterson, with a loud voice, “I demand to see you.” He paused for a moment, but there was no reply. “I must and shall see you,” he resumed; “if not by fair means, then by foul — if not of your consent, then by brute force!”
“You damn fool!” Cried a voice from behind the door, then a crash rang through the quiet night.
“Gabriel,” said another weaker voice, “for God’s sake, have mercy!”
“Jekyll!” Utterson called, stifling his desperation.
There was another wail from behind the door. Only one set of footsteps could be heard, but the mangled voices and struggle sounded as if there were two.
“You fool!” Cried the other voice. “You’ll kill us both!!”
And with that, Utterson swung the ax over his shoulder. The blow shook the building, and the red baize door leaped against its lock and hinges. A pitiful screech, as of mere animal terror, rang from the cabinet. Up went the ax again, and again the panels crashed and the frame bounded; four times the blow fell; but the wood was tough and made with excellent workmanship; and it was not until the fifth, that the lock burst and the wreck of the door fell inwards on the carpet.
The lawyer, appalled by his own riot, stood back a little and peered in. There lay the cabinet before his eyes in the quiet lamplight, a fire glowing, a kettle singing its thin strain, a drawer or two open, papers strewn across the floor, and nearer the fire, the things laid out for tea. Right in the middle stood Henry Jekyll, downing a vial of a strange green liquid, before doubling over and choking, breaking the bottle in between his hands. Utterson hurried to his side, grabbing the doctor’s shoulder before being forced away, falling back against the couch leg.
“STAY BACK!” Cried the doctor. His voice was distorted and deep as he held himself up on his hands and knees, heaving and shaking. He let out another cry before coughing, hardly able to breathe.
“Henry! Let me help you!” Utterson said, getting back to his knees.
”NO!” His voice was still distorted. Something was strangely familiar about it. “I COULD HURT YOU!” Henry said, finally looking up. There were tears in his eyes, yet they weren’t quite tears. They were an awful green color, and this same liquid seemed to be bleeding from his mouth and nose as well.
He cried once more before grabbing his head and falling further over.
Utterson sat back in shock as Jekyll continued to writhe around on the floor. His structure seemed as if it were transforming into something else. He wanted to do something, anything to help his dear friend, but he had no clue what was happening or what he had just consumed.
Jekyll finally calmed, ultimately returning to appear as the real, genuine, Henry Jekyll. Coughing again, a substance fell from his lips, seeming to move around with its own mind. Visible panic ran across his face, trying to grab this thing with his bleeding, glass filled, hand, but was shaking too much to move with purpose.
Utterson took the opportunity to make his way over to his friend, tentatively grabbing his hand before fully wrapping his arms around the man. Jekyll fell limp against Utterson’s figure, still shaking. He looked pale, awfully tired, and unhealthily skinny.
“God, Henry, when was the last time you slept? Or ate?” Utterson questioned, moving him slightly to get a better look at him. Jekyll just mumbled incoherently for a moment before going silent. He was clearly exhausted, and Utterson’s heart ached at the sight of his friend in such a condition.
Poole abruptly appeared from the back doorway. “Sir! I got so worried while waiting, it got so quiet! I wasn’t sure if either of you were still alive.” He rambled, taking in the sight before him. “Master!” He lunged beside them, inspecting Jekyll in a panic. “God he looks awful, what shall we do?? Oh, God! This is awful!”
“Poole! Compose yourself!” Utterson snapped, but in a voice Poole knew meant no harm. “He needs to rest , he’s exhausted and- I don’t know, something weird happened”
“Weird? — Nevermind that! Come come, we need to get him help!”