Jekyll’s
Daughter
by MK Alexander
Smashwords Edition
Jekyll’s Daughter
By MK Alexander
Copyright 2011. All rights reserved.
Smashwords Edition
Based on The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, by Robert Louis Stevenson, 1886.
This work may not be reproduced, or electronically transmitted without expressed consent of the author.
ISBN: 9781450794220
Published by KMACK Design, BOX 144, Sea Cliff, NY 11579
Cover Art: Hecate or The Night of Enitharmon's Joy, circa 1795, by William Blake (Public Domain).
Please direct all comments or inquiries to mkalex@optonline.net
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Also by MK Alexander:
Random Sacrifice
My New World: A Teenager’s WWII Odyssey
PROLOGUE
Night was well upon this quiet quarter of London. The bustling shops had long since closed and the din of the city had silenced to an occasional footfall against cobbles. A second story gable hung precipitously over one small bystreet, nestled in the row of townhouses; and just beyond, a monstrous wall loomed, broken by a single unmarked door set against it in the furthest corner. It could only open to places unknown.
Upstairs, Henri pushed against her glasses and hunched over her workbench. She was alone except for a muted symphony of boiling and bubbling that filled her with expectation. Far against the wall a fire crackled and flickered in the hearth. The windows were shuttered tight against the courtyard and the street below, and a single incandescent bulb blazed inadequately, rendering the room in severe shadow. How she hated that light, but there was little to do but suffer its harsh glare. On the workbench a complicated glass apparatus of indeterminable function transported various tinctures and fluids, some roiling under a soft blue flame, some dripping into every manner of vessel and jar; all casting eerie glints of a different color.
Henri was about to brew a fresh batch of the formula, though she would never use that word herself. “Brew—” the very word had an unseemly, unscientific connotation. But this time, the formula was greatly improved, she judged, and positioned a section of glass tubing over another set of beakers. Henri carefully adjusted a titration knob and added a new reagent. A cloud of white vapor emerged from somewhere at the far end of the bench. Surely, a strange odor began to permeate the room.
She followed the spiraling glass tubes with her fingers as she walked to the other side of the table. The tubes eventually merged and led to a single glass jar. Some mysterious fluid dripped, relentlessly rising against etched gradations.
Henri held the jar up for closer inspection. There was a pale green liquid inside. She plunged it back against her throat and swallowed. At first nothing happened and she was left with a bitter taste in her mouth. Then, a violent pain coursed through her, starting from her center, radiating to her head and her limbs. She braced herself against the table. Her breathing was rapid and deep. A prickly, burning sensation followed just under the skin. She was quivering, then shaking, and an overwhelming thirst came upon her. She stumbled about the room, knocking over anything in her path. She found herself clutching her throat. Instinct drove her to quell the terrible thirst. She found a beaker of putrid water and downed it in a few gulps. The pain grew more intense for a moment, but the tremors passed, the thirst subsided.
Henri let the warm tingling sensation rise through her body. It was almost pleasing though it became difficult to stand. She supported herself with both arms against her desk.
“Thank goodness I’ve taken only the smallest dose,” she said aloud, but the words sounded strange. Her lips felt different when she spoke, swollen, as if they were not quite her own. Her voice was altered as well.
Henri pulled herself upright again, and though feeling a bit lightheaded, she tried to walk over to the corner of the study. Her gait was precarious, swaying as if she were perched on legs that were too powerful, or too long. Looking down she noticed her nightgown no longer touched the floor but was up around her ankles. She steadied herself and a small smile passed across her lips. It was only fitting, she mused, “to gaze at my new reflection in my father’s old mirror.” She was disappointed though. Only a blurry figure greeted her.
The idea to take off her glasses seemed obvious and the room came into sharp focus. Her reflection startled. She was at first horrified. It was almost someone else gazing back— Henri’s own sense of recognition was fading; her very mind seemed to dim by the moment. She was someone different now, even though Henri still lurked in the background. It was a curious sensation, almost as if two people were in the same mind, one, spectator to the other. She could not yet recognize the nascent personality who was trying to emerge.
She let her nightgown fall away. In the reflection stood an alluring woman of physical stature and bearing. She reached up to unfastened her hair and let it fall across her shoulders— it was golden-red, long, luxuriant and soft. And almost like a mask, she wore a beautiful countenance, with pale green eyes, a pretty nose, high cheekbones and a full, pursed mouth.
Her hands began to explore the new body, rounding supple curves and crossing slowly across her breast, lingering sensually on the nape of her neck, then up to her face. It was no longer her own. Her skin was soft and smooth; her features were even and refined. She let go a wild laugh and skipped away from the mirror, giddy, euphoric, dancing around the room as if truly alive for the first time.
But she stopped in her tracks. There was a noise, a creak on the stair, or a shuffling footstep— then a knocking. Panic filled her. It rose up inside. Henrietta came rushing back to the fore. She quickly put on her dressing gown and drank back a large glass of brandy. Henri was returning. The knocking persisted.
***
‘A perfectly horrid little girl...’ People used those very words— she heard them whispering. She was just six or so, just a little girl, but she was sick, always sick, and never happy, never satisfied. Nasty old uncle had given her a kitten to cheer her up.
It is the cat’s fault, all of it. He is making me sick, she decided.
She let go.
She saw the look of terror in its eyes as it shrunk from view. He fell, helplessly clawing at the air, searching for something solid to grasp. He hit the paving stones of courtyard with a small thud. She looked down. Now the cat was far away. He was sprawled at an odd angle, twisted awkwardly. He wouldn’t move and she didn’t think he was breathing anymore.
“Cats don’t have nine lives after all,” she said.
CHAPTER I
The engine let go a heavy sigh of steam and at last came to rest in Kings Cross station. The journey from Edinburgh was a long, weary one even in this modern age. Aboard was Henrietta Guest, a woman of slightly displeasing expression, despite her youth and apparent vigor. She peered out anxiously through thick glasses onto the platform, searching the crowds for her brother Jonathan.
He was there, handsome and taller than most in his usual brown bowler, seeking her in the train windows. Their eyes finally met. Jonathan rushed over and helped his sister from the train.
“Thank God, you got my wire,” he said and stooped to peck her on the cheek.
“I must say it was rather cryptic and frightening.” She gave her brother a scornful look.
“I am sorry, and I don’t want to start an argument, Henri— but I had to get you here quickly. The truth is, it’s Uncle Gabriel.” He paid no attention to her glare and began to wade through the crowds.
“Uncle Gabriel?” she asked.
“He’s dying, Henri, and he’s asked to see you. Now, we must hurry. I have the car waiting.”
She was at a loss for words but felt indistinct fears rise up. “Why didn’t you use the telephone?”
“Bloody useless, really,” he said, though with good humor. He smiled grimly and pulled her across the station toward the huge iron gates. “If you must know, I did manage to get a trunk line— but at the other end it was a mad Scotswoman talking a mile a minute in a brogue so thick only a highlander could make sense of her.”
Henrietta smiled slightly. “Aye, that would be Mrs. McPherson, the housekeeper. I don’t know how many times she’s been told to never touch the telephone, especially when it rings.”
Jonathan noticed her expression. “Dear Henri, why am I the only person in the entire world who can make you smile?”
“I have affection for no one else,” she replied matter-of-factly. Jonathan looked away. She followed arm in arm for a while, then asked, “What about poor old Gabriel?”
“What’s to say, Henri? The old dog is far into his seventies. He’s lived a proper life, made a close cadre of friends and even has us as a kind of surrogate family. Underneath that cantankerous exterior is a happy soul.”
“But why does he want to see me?”
“Despite what you think, you’ve always been his favorite.”
“Tell that to Cousin Richard.” Henrietta frowned.
“Don’t even mention his name.”
“Well, I certainly blame him for all of the discord in the household.”
“And he’s up to his old tricks as usual,” Jonathan said as he gently tugged his sister outside into the chilly London air.
The sounds of the city: sputtering engines, clattering wheels, pedestrians and hawking newsboys, came upon Henri as an unaccustomed force. They walked in silence for a time until their driver rushed to meet them and tend to the luggage.
“Far fewer horses and many more brass machines than we have up north,” Henri finally said to ease a growing disquiet.
“The latest in progress, Mademoiselle,” Jonathan said with mock formality as he guided her to the backseat. The goggled driver pulled back a lever and the motorcar lurched forward into the crowded street. “We’ll go straight there, if it’s all the same,” Jonathan said and settled next to Henri.
“Speaking of progress, how goes your new vocation?” she asked after a while.
“Well enough—though I’m still kicking myself for not getting to Sydney Street with all good speed.”
“You mean the anarchists?”
Jonathan nodded.
“And what’s Cousin Enfield been up to?”
“Please, let’s not speak of him,” Jonathan said firmly and then looked straight at her. He gave her an engaging smile. “But tell me, Henri, how is school?”
“All that’s left is my final dissertation. Were I an officially recognized, matriculating student, I would be graduating with a post doctorate and could add all sorts of letters after my name.” She took a breath. “As it is that I am only an unofficial observer, I leave as I came, Henrietta Guest.”
“Not Dr. Guest?” he asked and smiled.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Well yes, doctor does still apply.”
“And was it worth it?”
“My curiosity has been well satisfied. That’s worth nearly anything.”
“You should thank all those blasted books in uncle’s library. You were always reading something or another…” Jonathan’s voice trailed off. “Still… thank goodness you have a place to put your passion.”
“Whatever are you saying, dear brother?”
“I only mean that if you didn’t have chemistry and science, and all that— where would you apply that frighteningly rational mind of yours?” He paused to smile and looked at Henri with his bright blue eyes. “You’d have probably have ended up like mother, planning and plotting every minutia of her tedious life.”
Henrietta looked back blankly. “How is mother getting on?”
“Not all that well, I’m afraid. Not much that can be done of course.” Jonathan looked away.
She pushed on her glasses. “I also meant to say, Malcolm gives you a hearty hello.”
“Funny old Malcolm. How is that scallywag?”
“Well enough, though he’s had his share of difficulties. And while his ethics may be questionable, his ambition is very much intact: He shall be adding all those peculiar letters after his name in another few months.”
“I miss the pudgy old devil; the times we had… Always testing my good nature…” His voice broke into a chuckle.
Henri looked out at the passing square and realized the neighborhood was familiar: a bystreet of orderly houses in a row, each behind an iron gate. “I’ve been away a long time,” she said aloud but more to herself.
“You have at that, Henri— two years almost. I’ve missed you terribly. And so has Isabelle.”
She smiled weakly. “How is she, by the way, the ever-beautiful Isabelle?”
Jonathan ignored her inflection. “Haven’t seen all that much of her. Cousin Enfield has her locked away in some country estate.”
“That reminds me… I have a letter from her father to deliver,” Henri said then paused. “Have they set a date?”
“Not yet. I think Enfield is stalling,” he said with a trace of annoyance.
Henri scrutinized her brother’s expression. “And what’s he got you so bothered about?” she asked. “I can hear it in your tone. I do believe you still fault him for stealing away Isabelle.”
“Nonsense, that was nearly ten years ago,” he scolded. “It’s not that at all, it’s just that he’s been hanging about the house a good deal. To my mind, pestering Uncle Gabriel unduly. Oh, it’s the same old story: he’s trying to get permission to open the back part of the house. Now he says he wants to start a school of some sort.” He waved his hand dismissively. “It’s been shut up tight for a good twenty-five years.”
“Jonathan, it’s not such a bad idea,” she said slowly. “Though, Enfield is not the person for the task. More than likely, he would tear the place down to put up a block of flats.” She paused. “You’re not thinking of those ghost stories, are you?”
“Well, you’ve heard all the talk. There must be something peculiar about the place.”
“We played in the courtyard there as children. It was one of the loveliest gardens in all of London,” she protested.
“True enough,” he admitted. “It was grand.” A shadow crossed his face. His mind went back to the time when they played as children, and how Henrietta had cruelly locked him in the dissecting rooms for nearly half a day. And how he was completely terrified. He returned to the present and looked at Henri. “Still... that surgical theatre, the laboratory, and the flat upstairs— all shut up for twenty-five years. God knows what you’d find if you opened it up.”
“A ghost no doubt,” she chided.
***
John Gabriel Utterson lay dying in his darkened bedroom of the house-in-the-square. Downstairs his nephew Enfield paced the floor restlessly. He had already been summoned for the last time. The old man was close to the end, and had told him outright: “Young Enfield, nothing you tell me holds any sway. You are my nephew in name only, and only since your father was among my closest friends.”
Enfield heard a motorcar pull up to the gate. There were footsteps. The young butler Merrick, and a graved-face Mrs. Cheevers, escorted Henrietta and Jonathan inside.
“You’d better go right up,” Enfield said without so much as a greeting. “If you’re not too late already,” he called out as they climbed the stairs. There’s always the will, he thought to himself, gave a thin smile and fixed another drink.
Jonathan and Henri entered Uncle Gabriel’s bedroom quietly; only the nurse heard them and looked up from her book. He lay half upright, propped up by several pillows, his mouth oddly open and his eyes completely shut. They moved to the bed and Henrietta strained to see if uncle was still breathing. She was about to reach for his wrist when the old man broke the silence with a raspy voice: “Ah, Henri, here at last, now I can finally get on with this business of dying. It’s been a terrible bother, really. I am so very tired.” He groped for her hand and feebly stroked it. His eyes were wide open now and seemed to have a good deal of spark left in them. He slowly turned his head toward Jonathan and attempted a smile. He coughed instead, his body hunched with pain.
The nurse ran forward and offered water. Utterson drank greedily then lay back on his pillows exhausted from the effort. After a time he spoke again, “Jonathan, you’ve been like a son to me. Thank you for that.” He paused and let his hand rest on Jonathan’s cheek. “Now, I have one last errand for you…” He motioned to a small writing desk across the room. “There’s a letter. Take it to your father’s old friend, Nicholas Lancer on Mercer Street. Be sure you hand it to him in person. Trust no one else… especially…” his voice trailed off as if he were falling asleep. The old man’s eyes gazed fixedly across the room.
There was a long, long silence. The nurse came forward. Henrietta gave a small gasp. Jonathan bent closer.
“Now,” Utterson said rather loudly, “give your old uncle a kiss goodbye.” He looked deeply at Jonathan. “Off you go with my letter. And take the nurse with you. I want to be alone with Henri.”
It seemed for a moment that Uncle Gabriel was back to his old self, pleasantly ordering everyone about. But Henri knew better. She saw this shell of a man on the bed before her. This was hardly the same Uncle Gabriel she had known all her life. He was a frail, fragile thing at the edge of existence, not the robust, stern man of vigor she had grown up with. There was an uncanny hollowness about him as if he were made of porcelain that was not quite thick enough, nor hard enough. She heard the door close. She was alone with Uncle Gabriel.
He stared at Henrietta for a long time searching her expression, then motioned for her to sit beside him. She obliged and held his hands.
“I haven’t much time left, Henri. And what I need to tell you is the hardest thing I have ever said to anyone in my long life.” He straightened himself on the pillows. “I need a brandy. And so do you.”
Henrietta began to protest.
“Damn it all, girl,” uncle whispered. “Don’t deny me the last drink of my life.” He smiled. “And… I have seen you burgle a brandy from time to time, young woman.”
Henrietta frowned without thinking and served two glasses.
“Henri,” Utterson began after a few sips, “I’ve tried to teach you the great value of social convention. And I believe you have learned this lesson. But, I carry with me a terrible secret, and this secret involves you. It in no way sullies you; you are innocent from it— but when I die, you may discover the truth. There is no way to protect you from this glaring thing.” He paused to drink again. “However, how much of the truth you learn is something I still have in my power to control.” He held up his hand before Henrietta could interrupt.
“I’m being enigmatic, I know. But it is a secret so terrible, so beyond the norms of society…” he coughed and winced from pain. “There is no easy way to say this.” Utterson paused and took Henrietta’s hand. He seemed to squeeze it with all his remaining strength and suddenly pulled her closer. She was taken off balance and found herself face to face with her dying uncle.
“Henri,” he whispered, “you are not a Guest. You are Henry Jekyll’s daughter.” He relaxed his grip and fell back. Henrietta sat up again barely comprehending the words she had just heard.
With great effort, Utterson lifted his arm and wagged a long bony finger at the writing table. Henrietta’s eyes followed.
“The key,” he gasped. “The key to my safe… Fetch it.”
Henrietta rose and returned with a heavy silver key on a long chain. She tried to give it to her uncle but he pushed it back.
“For you,” he said and closed his eyes. A faint smile crossed his lips. Henrietta knew at that moment he was gone. Dead.
She kissed him on the forehead, then rose, unsure of what to do. She paced the floor a moment or two and could feel tears welling up. An unfamiliar wave of sadness passed over her, and strangely, a sense of relief followed. She went to the door. She stopped but did not look back; instead, she put the key chain around her neck and struggled to get it under her collar. Finally, she felt the cold metal against her chest and opened the door.
CHAPTER II
Henri stared blankly across the flagstones that paved the large front hall. She watched the flames dancing in the open fireplace. Uncle Gabriel often boasted that this low-ceilinged room was the most pleasant in all of London. She sat amidst the oak cabinets in the firelight, her head burning with fantastic thoughts and notions. Henri needed time to impose order on her impressions and feelings. Merrick, the young butler, deftly interrupted her meditation:
“Mum Guest has instructed me to make up the first floor rooms for your convenience. And I took the liberty of preparing a supper for you.” He paused and tried to make eye contact. “I am very sorry for your loss, Mistress. He was a great man, well loved.”
“Thank you, Merrick. That’s very kind,” she said, though failed to look up.
“Master Enfield is still in the library waiting to see you,” said the butler. “Shall I say you are indisposed?”
“Yes. But do let me know when Master Jonathan returns. And I will speak with Mrs. Cheevers in the morning.”
He nodded and said, “Supper is as you like it.”
“Merrick?”
“Coffee, Mistress Guest, instead of tea.”
“That is a luxury. Thank you for remembering.”
Henri rose and made her way through the quiet house to her rooms. There, her trunks were already unpacked and a meal was laid out along with a steaming pot of coffee. She made a cup and sat at a small dressing table and then realized that she couldn’t recall ever being quite so unsettled: the arduous journey south, uncle’s passing, and the shocking revelation that I am a Jekyll. It was nearly inconceivable. She stared into the mirror as if to measure how this new information must have altered her. She touched her face with a certain uneasiness and wished she could see herself better. Plain brown eyes gazed back, and as always, from behind glasses. Her thin, dark hair was pulled back severely and wrapped in a tight bun. Her lips were drawn and taut. She had a round, flat face with a complexion that was slightly pocked and freckled. Her nose was a bit too large as well.
If I had a bit more chin, I could be an attractive woman, Henri always liked to think. But it was just a way to be kind to herself when rarely, a feeling of womanly vanity rose inside her. She was mostly able to deny her feminine nature.
Despite all that had occurred, she looked remarkably at peace, her features smooth and expressionless. She did not notice her usual pallor. And except for the dark circles under her eyes, in this light, in this mirror, she looked almost pleasing. Henri turned her head to one side and inspected herself; she pursed her lips then slowly loosened her hair to let it fall around her face. In the harsher light of day she appeared quite different.
She was, if not rather homely, as some might say, then at least, nondescript. Worse though, some recognized a trace of malice in her eyes and noticed a cold, heartless expression that she sometimes wore. She had no specific deformity, yet her appearance often prompted some vague notion of apprehension in others who let their glance linger too long.
No wonder she looked nothing like Jonathan, so handsome, rugged and tall. ‘He got the looks and she got the brains,’ people had teased as they were growing up.
Growing up, she thought, Jonathan was not my brother. My forbidden yearnings, held so secret, were not so misplaced. And the nagging suspicion, that vague feeling of living an artfully chaperoned life made some sense now. She recalled a time when they were alone together in the courtyard, just fourteen or fifteen years old. The Queen had died, and they were for that single day, mistakenly forgotten and abandoned. The servants, the governess, everyone—all had disappeared. She and Jonathan kissed in the courtyard and later snuck into the old laboratory…
My father’s laboratory—Dr. Jekyll’s. She tried to call up any scrap of information to mind. Indeed, everyone knew this was his very house. He was a scientist of some reputation and a noted philanthropist. He had died mysteriously— disappeared, or was murdered. But what did he look like? Henri remembered seeing a picture of him somewhere… yes, in the library. And my real mother? What was her name and what was she like?
The questions that raced through her mind would need validation, but they were too soon replaced by a tide of churning feelings, breaking one after another. It made Henri anxious, unaccustomed to such an onslaught of emotion. She buried her face in her hands and let out a deep sigh. The single, forbidden longing began to surface again.
She fought against it and abruptly rose, walking to the table, hoping some supper would calm her. By chance, she caught her reflection. An almost plump figure moved across the mirror. It was as if the years had passed in an instant and she was no longer a sick, scrawny child, but a rather pear-shaped adult mostly fashioned by inactivity. Henri was never concerned about the physical side of life, let alone appearance. She doubted whether she would ever have a lover, or a husband, or children. Such things didn’t seem important. Her mind was everything; and reason, logic and rationality would serve her well enough. She would never be a slave to vanity.
Sleep will come, she thought and began to undress. It was then when she remembered the key. The large silver key now warm to the touch lay under her bodice. Henri pulled it out and fingered it thoughtfully; checked the time, then wrapped herself in a heavy dressing gown and made for the door.
***
It was well after midnight when Henri slowly pushed open the double oak doors to the library. It was almost entirely dark. The fire was little more than embers, the electric light was off, and curiously, a small, dim lamp burned on the table. She took the lamp and made for the far wall behind Uncle Gabriel’s monstrously large desk. Henri scanned the pictures and paused on a few until she finally found the one she wanted. The light was too feeble to study it now, so she took it down and put it on the desk.
Next she walked to the steel safe in the corner and drew out the silver key. There was just enough light to fit it inside the lock. She turned with all her might and heard the latch fall open. She pulled the heavy handle and opened the door. It was too dark to see anything, so she groped inside.
“Ah, the key,” said a voice in the dark.
Henri shot to her feet, terrified.
“Didn’t mean to startle you, dear,” the voice continued. “It’s just that I didn’t think uncle’s safe would be opened so soon.”
Henri stammered a few words and backed into the corner looking for the source of the voice. A few moments later she saw a shadow rise from an armchair near the fireplace. The dark figure poked at the fire and it blazed to life.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Henri,” the voice said.
Henri recognized it this time and could make out Enfield’s form against the fire. He sat back into the shadows of the armchair.
“Well, well, Cousin Richard, lurking in the shadows as usual. And good evening to you as well,” Henri said, more relieved than angry.
“Condolences all around,” said Enfield.
Henri could imagine the thin smile that crossed Enfield’s face though she couldn’t see it.
“The sly old man has finally departed,” he continued. “And tell me, dear, what did you find in his safe?
“Nothing yet. I was interrupted.”
“Then let’s both have a look-see. Shall we?” Enfield rose and quickly walked over to the safe. He turned up the lamp and held it low, almost inside the steel box. It appeared to be empty except for a single envelope. This he grabbed and seemed tempted to tear it open on the spot. Something stopped him however, and instead, he examined it in the flickering light. On the back was Uncle Gabriel’s familiar red wax seal. And on the front, written in their uncle’s hand, the name: Henrietta J.
“Henrietta J?” he said with an indescribable inflection. “Have you gone off and got married, Henri, without telling a soul?”
Henri tried to grab the letter but Enfield held it out of her grasp.
“Now, now, dear Henri,” he said and smiled, “not so fast. Tell me, where are the rest of Uncle’s papers?”
“I have no idea.”
“But you must. A man like Uncle Gabriel has reams of important papers to pore through. All kinds of legal matters that— though clever as you are, dear cousin— are well beyond your experience.”
“I know nothing except of the key uncle gave me before he died,” she said firmly. “You are witness to the opening of the safe. You know as much as I.”
“Surely you don’t take me for a fool, Henri,” he said with more than a little menace in his voice. He reached out suddenly and caught her by the wrist. He squeezed too tightly and she cried out. “I will ask you only once more, dear cousin. Where are uncle’s papers?”
“They are not accessible to you, Enfield,” another voice answered him unexpectedly. There was a loud, sharp click and brilliant light filled the room. Enfield shrank back from the glare. Henri reached over and seized the letter.
“Have you nothing better to do than threaten members of the family in a dark room?” Jonathan asked as he loomed by the doors to the library.
“Apparently not,” said Henri as she walked over to Jonathan. “I’m relieved you’re back.”
“She is not family. And neither are you,” Enfield shot back angrily. “I have a perfect right to uncle’s papers. As executor of his will, I am entitled to—”
“There you presume too much,” Jonathan cut him short. “Uncle’s will is in the hands of Nicholas Lancer of Mercer Street.”
Enfield was at a loss for words. His face reddened and he rushed from the room. Jonathan and Henri listened to his hurried stride echo down the corridor. After a time they heard his footsteps fade upstairs.
“Are you all right?” Jonathan asked.
CHAPTER III
The next morning Henri wore a scowl.
Jonathan glanced at her with pained expression. “By him, I suppose you mean Inspector Jinx?”
“Of course I do,” she replied sharply. “I cannot see why it is any of his business-- poking about in family matters.”
“It’s just routine, Henri dear. A courtesy, if you like. Inspector Jinx was one of Uncle’s dearest friends. Upon hearing about poor Gabriel, well, I suppose he felt compelled to pay his respects. He has told me privately that he doesn’t expect an inquiry.”
“All the same, I don’t like the man. He’s meddlesome.” Henri looked to her desk. She picked up a letter and handed it to Jonathan.
He began to read:
Dearest Henrietta,
If you are reading this letter, doubtless, I am resting in peace. Under what other circumstances you come to read this I cannot know. I will start plainly: You have been like a daughter to me, and despite your choice not to marry, I am well satisfied by your strength of character and intelligence. But, you are not my daughter, not even my niece, however; nor was Robert Guest your real father.
Your natural father was Dr. Henry Jekyll. As he was my intimate friend for many long years, I can judge how very happy you would have made him, especially as you have inherited some of his most admirable traits. He could only be too proud to have such a daughter.
I knew little of your mother, I am sorry to say; but the story unfolds this way: Your father was quietly married some twenty-six years ago to a certain Penelope Bench of Soho. She was a fine woman of upstanding character who showed a great affection towards your father. Not more than a year passed before Henry Jekyll met his tragic end— murdered by the fiend named Hyde (but that is another story). Distraught, your mother sought my advice and I helped as much as I was able. With an equal measure of tragedy your mother died only days after bringing you into the world.
By a fortunate stroke of coincidence, my confidant and head clerk, Robert Guest had also brought a child into the world, your brother in name, Jonathan. It was decided that you would be adopted and raised in a steady, conventional household, in of all places, your father’s very own house. A happy irony!
I’m sure you agree with my decision then and now, as you have grown into a competent young woman. And, I am at peace knowing that the truth has now been told.
Your Loving Uncle,
John Gabriel Utterson
P.S. All your father’s relevant documents and letters, which I have saved, are in the safekeeping of Nicholas Lancer of Mercer Street; as well as certain provisions in my will that have already transferred your father’s trust fund to your possession. Don’t let Enfield bamboozle you into anything unwise.
“Well, what do you think?”
“Utterly fantastic,” he said leaning back from the breakfast table. “All these years I have been a guest in my own house.”
Henri nearly laughed despite herself.
It was the first time in years Jonathan had heard that sound. He smiled broadly, relieved to find Henri was not in one of her famous moods this morning. His concentration shifted to the framed photograph on the table. He picked it up and studied Jekyll’s face, but could see little of Henrietta in him. Distracted, he asked, “So, what will you do with all that money?”
“It probably won’t amount to much.”
“From what I’ve heard the old doctor was very well-heeled. I expect you’ll be one of the richest women in London.”
“What else have you heard about the old doctor as you call him? Now father, to me.”
“Sorry. I haven’t heard anything except all those ghastly stories we learned as children.” Jonathan made a face.
“Do you remember the time when we snuck into the laboratory; when that old crustacean Poole left the door open from the courtyard?” Henri asked.
“I do. And it was one of the most frightening days of my life.” He winced slightly. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
“It scares you?” Henri asked with disbelief.
“Bloody hell, it was a dissecting room where they carved up cadavers, for Christ’s sake,” Jonathan said, obviously upset.
“I don’t believe Dr. Jekyll ever carved a single corpse,” Henri replied.
“Perhaps you’re right.” He paused. “Still, it was a dreadful day. And I must say I’m glad you’ve outgrown that cruel streak of yours.”
“Whatever are you saying, Jonathan?” Henrietta asked sharply.
“As a little girl, you were quite wicked. I needn’t mention the story of your wretched cat—the poor creature…” his voice trailed off and he took a sip of tea. “Still… when you locked me in that accursed place for nearly a day, I was terrified, I will admit. And, I only mean to say, I’m glad you are… well, more cerebral, as a young woman.”
“I don’t recall anything about a cat,” Henri said icily and pushed against her glasses. “And, I meant the time when we snuck upstairs into Dr. Jekyll’s old flat.”
“That was an even worse day,” Jonathan moaned a bit and looked to the floor.
“It was purely a coincidence,” she said but her mind returned to that time when they were just nine or ten. The door to the laboratory by way of the courtyard had been left open by the ancient butler, Poole. They had crept inside to play hide-and-seek in the old operating theatre, amongst the crates and boxes. A set of stairs led to a second floor apartment— the “cabinet,” everyone called it. Jonathan ran up to hide and when Henri followed she found a red, broken down door lying off its hinges just at the entrance. She cautiously crept inside. The room was filled with all sorts of equipment: test tubes and beakers and alike. The walls were lined with glass presses, each shelf filled with tiny drawers crammed with wondrous bottles and vials. She saw Jonathan placing a small white square of paper on the middle of a great old desk; then he started opening and closing the drawers in the glass cabinets. It looked like great fun and she joined right in.
Not long after, they heard a noise downstairs and soon someone was climbing the steps very slowly. They hid under a bench piled with some apparatus. It was Poole. He paced the room and went towards the shelf with the open drawers. They could just see his feet and his legs. With hearts in their mouths they bounded for the door when he turned away. Henri was first down the stairs, but Jonathan had tipped the bench, and as if in slow motion, a huge glass apparatus went crashing to the floor. By the time Poole turned around they were both out of sight and half way into the courtyard and the light of day. But when they stopped to catch their breath they heard a cry so eerie and unearthly it still echoed in memory. It must have been Poole himself that created that sound: a far-off, anguished cry of pain, sorrow and shock all mixed into one.
“Old Poole died that very night,” Jonathan said in a kind of choked voice.
CHAPTER IV
The next morning Uncle Gabriel was buried. There were no motorcars, just the solemn procession of horse and carriage. It was of course raining. Jonathan, his frail mother, Patricia Guest, and Henri stood close to the vicar. Enfield appeared with the beautiful Isabelle, his fiancée; and they stood apart from the rest. The household staff, a few of uncle’s very old friends clustered on one side. And quite a crowd of people no one seemed to recognize filled in the rest of the gravesite. There was much jostling of umbrellas. And in all, the service seemed a bit hasty.
Predictably, Isabelle was perfectly presented for the funeral: solemn enough with a black satin dress and pitch-black hair exaggerating her ivory-pale skin; and yet, Henri blamed her for looking faintly seductive. Perhaps it was the way Isabelle would flash her dark eyes when she looked about. A small amount of envy passed through her when she considered how Isabelle could always look so enchanting, seemingly without effort, but Henri dismissed the feeling quickly.
Isabelle hung back for a long while but made a point of gliding over when the service had ended. “Henri, darling, my deepest sympathy. I know how you did love that sweet uncle of yours.” She took Henri by the hand and gave her a sincere expression as their umbrellas bumped.
“Thank you for coming today, Isabelle. I know it means a great deal to Jonathan,” Henri said and looked down for a time. She looked up and continued, “It is good to see you, looking as lovely as ever, after all this time.” Henri managed a poor smile. “Which reminds me, I have a letter from your father.” She paused. “Though I’ve forgotten to bring it with me.”
“How is he?” Isabelle asked, and then continued, “He must be terribly upset, not able to attend Uncle Gabriel’s funeral.”
“They doubtless made their peace last time your father was in London,” Henri said.
“Is he well then?” Isabelle asked.
“I see him only on occasion. He’s hardly ever in the house, but I’m sure he asks the same question as I do: Have you set the date?”
“June, of course.” Isabelle smiled.
“Three months away? Well, congratulations are in order.” Henri leaned over to give Isabelle a polite hug and a kiss. “I do hope you know what you’re doing.”
“That’s fine coming from you, an old maid of twenty-six.” She laughed quietly. “It is good to see you again, Henri. I really have missed you.” Isabelle gave Henri a return hug and kiss. “He’s not the brute you think he is. Under all that bluster is a very sweet, gentle man.”
“That remains to be seen.” Henri tried to smile.
“And where is Malcolm?” Isabelle asked. “He should be here today of all days.”
“He sent regrets, of course, but he’s busy finishing at university.”
“Well… I wish it were different,” said Isabelle. “It’s not like the old days when we all stayed at Uncle’s house.” Isabelle laughed. “Those were happy days, all of us together,” she said wistfully.
Henri tried to recall, and for a moment, slipped into the past. A vile image crowded her mind: a small cat, a kitten really, was shrinking from view, falling, falling to the courtyard below.
“Oh this dreadful rain,” Isabelle sighed and wrinkled her nose. “I must be going, but promise me we’ll have tea very soon. Promise?”
Henri nodded. “I promise.”
“I’ll telephone next week.”
***
Nicholas Lancer’s office was like every other law office Henrietta had ever seen— and she had seen many growing up with Uncle Gabriel. It had two rather dingy windows, wood paneled walls half covered with bookshelves and filing cabinets, an enormous desk, sundry chairs, and the very far off sound of clanking typewriters.
Nicholas Lancer himself had the misfortune of having a high squeaky voice, making it perfectly unsuited for the reading of wills. He droned on with only Richard Enfield and Jonathan listening. Henri’s thoughts were drifting elsewhere until Jonathan gently tapped her foot to get her attention.
“In summary… to Henrietta Guest, my legal ward, I leave one half the remainder of my monies, the Dr. Jekyll Trust, and all properties, including the house-in-the-square, the Edinburgh house and the cottage on the North Sea, etcetera; all properties except Dr. Jekyll’s former laboratory, also known as the dissecting-rooms.
“To Richard Enfield, I leave the aforementioned property and my former residence on Gaunt Street.
“To Jonathan Guest, I leave one half of all remaining monies and the provision that permits his mother, Patricia Guest, and all servants of that household who so wish, to remain at the house-in-the-square.” The lawyer paused and adjusted his glasses. “The remainder of Mr. Utterson’s monies is a considerable sum… well over two hundred thousand pounds sterling. And Jekyll’s trust fund is worth at last count, very nearly a million sterling.” Lancer looked directly at Henri. “That makes you one of the richest women in London, my dear girl.” He smiled a painful smile and Henri could hear Enfield let off a low groan.
“What of the other half of the house, Dr. Jekyll’s laboratory? Why wasn’t that left to me?” Henri asked, surprising everyone in the room. An uncomfortable silence followed but was filled by the clatter of typewriters from far off.
“My dear, I have no way of knowing your uncle’s intent.”
“Are there any papers left for me? Did Uncle Utterson leave anything of that sort?”
“Indeed,” said the lawyer, “These.” He handed Henrietta a large packet of folded, yellowed papers. She looked through them quickly and found many letters, a few photographs and a journal with large swaths of pages deliberately cut out.
“This is all he left?” she asked the lawyer.
He simply nodded.
There was another long silence. Enfield seemed especially amused and sat quietly with a small grin on his face. Finally, Lancer broke the stillness with his shrill voice: “Well, if there is nothing else… no objections, I shall set the legal wheels in motion, so to speak.” He began to rise from behind his desk. “I have this key for you, Mr. Enfield.”
Enfield rose to his feet and nearly snatched the key from the lawyer’s hands. He withdrew quickly. Jonathan and Henri followed soon after.
“Henri, dear?” Enfield called after them in the corridor. “It seems like we both have a key from dear old uncle. You have one to his empty safe.” He smiled thinly and continued, “and I have the key to Jekyll’s old building. That makes my key worth much more than yours.” He pushed back on his slick brown hair.
“What are you after, Richard?” Jonathan asked and took a step forward.
“Nothing from you, cousin. You’ve got your tidy sum and should be happy. I want to know what Henri finds so interesting about Dr. Jekyll’s Surgical School for Wayward Boys.”
“It’s nothing, really, Richard, just a pleasant sentiment. I grew up in the courtyard there, that’s all,” she said and frowned without thinking.
“I don’t believe you, Henri, not for a moment. Still, it is a nice piece of property.” Enfield paused. “Worth more than a letter from uncle and that fistful of faded papers you’re holding.”
“Curiosity has always been your downfall, Richard. You’re far too eager to know what was in that letter. And what these are…” Henri held up the papers.
“I won’t say that I’m not curious.”
“Well, you shall remain so. But if you come by the house tomorrow, I will write you a check for whatever you think Jekyll’s laboratory is worth.”
“Henri—” Jonathan protested but she cut him off with a glance.
“Shall we say ten, tomorrow?”
“I will draw up the documents and decide on a price.” Enfield held up the key, gave off his thin smile, and walked quickly down the corridor.
CHAPTER V
Richard Enfield arrived earlier than expected the next morning— before nine. Merrick led him to the library. Henrietta was breakfasting in the hall, the room at the front of the house paved in flagstones and done up like a country home’s parlor. It was bright and cheery and Henri found it the most pleasant part of the house.
She had already met with Mrs. Cheevers, the house manager, a prim woman of some fifty-odd years. Henri assured her everything would continue exactly as before. After the dishes were cleared, Henri instructed Merrick to show Enfield in. She positioned herself behind a small writing desk and did not rise to meet him. Instead, she watched him enter: He was not as handsome as Jonathan, but had refined features. He had penetrating brown eyes, was sharply intelligent, and supremely self-confident.
“Good morning, Henri,” Richard said rather informally and eased himself into the nearest chair. He looked her over carefully as if to judge her mood, then continued, “I see you’ve taken no time at all in establishing yourself as mistress of the house. Not that Jonathan is so capable, nor his frail mother.”
“It is my house, Richard,” Henri said with some contempt, “What should you have me do?”
“Nothing less than you have. And why I will give up my rooms, if you require.”
“I can’t see how that will be necessary. You may keep your lodgings for as long as you need.” Henri pushed against her glasses.
“Still, it must vex you to no end, to have only this half of the house. Who might your new neighbors be?”
“If you have your way, it’s likely to be a four-story block of flats swarming with new people to meet.”
“It’s an exceptional bit of real estate.” He pushed back on his slicked hair. “And what would you do with the place?”
“Perhaps I will establish a small women’s medical school. It’s set up rather well for that.”
“You’ve been inside?” Richard asked.
“As a child.”
“I hear the place is haunted…” He paused. “And I was thinking of six or seven stories.”
“There’s no need to bargain like a gypsy, Richard. I’m prepared to pay whatever price you have in mind for Jekyll’s old laboratory.”
“Are you?” Enfield gave off his thin smile and edged his chair a bit closer to the desk. “Of course money is no object to you, Henri dear, but my price may be a bit more than you expect.” He paused. “I’ll come straight to the point. The cash value of Jekyll’s property is easily determined by current real estate values in this part of London and the use of the land. I won’t bore you with the details. Yet not included in that formulation is my very own curiosity.” He fished around in his vest pocket and took out the key. He laid it on Henri’s writing desk.
“A letter written in Uncle Gabriel’s own hand addressed to ‘Henrietta J.’ And then a very unusual last will and testament leaving it all to you— not in itself surprising, but why do you inherit everything Jekyll ever owned— except his laboratory? Very strange indeed.” Enfield took a breath and leaned back in his chair.
Henri was about to reply but Enfield continued.
“I did some checking on this Jekyll character. It seems my father knew him, or of him, and wrote of it in his journals. Journals that I read just last night.” Enfield eyed Henri for a reaction but saw none and so he went on. “And odder still was this shadowy figure of Mr. Hyde, a sort of protégé of Jekyll’s; or as some would tell it, Jekyll’s personal tormentor, who blackmailed him mercilessly and finally murdered him; only to take his own life in the very apartment that Uncle Gabriel has willed to me. I must say, Henri, all this has me very curious, very curious indeed.”
“Richard, I hate to be the one to disappoint you, but it seems you already know far more than I about these matters.”
“Bless me, Henri. Don’t be coy.”
“My last intention, I assure you, Richard.” Henri frowned without thinking. “Had I known of this sordid history before, I would not have made the offer to purchase Jekyll’s quarters. Surely it taints the sweet sentiment I felt yesterday.”
“And now it’s my turn to admonish you for gypsy bargaining. Don’t think you can lower the price I have in mind,” Enfield said with a trace of annoyance.
“Again, not my intent, dear cousin,” Henri said. “At any price, I no longer wish to buy. And I must bid you a good morning, Richard.” She began to rise from her chair.
“A moment, please, cousin Henri. Yesterday you were impatient to have this key.”
“I was. Yesterday. And today I am not.” She stood fully.
Enfield rose as well. “Henri darling, you must buy it from me. I’ve been counting on it,” he said with complete calm.
“There must be good reason why Uncle Utterson doesn’t want me anywhere near Jekyll’s old place. And I believe I should respect his wishes.”
“Jekyll was your father, wasn’t he, Henri?” Enfield blurted.
“No. You are mistaken, cousin.”
“Don’t cousin me, Henri. Jekyll was your father and now you’re terrified of the place—or what you might find there,” Enfield seethed angrily and sat down again. He smoothed his slick back hair.
“The letter you saw… from the safe…” Henri began, “You misread the initial in the poor light. It was Henrietta ‘U.’ not ‘J’. Gabriel was my father.”
Enfield could not quite mask his surprise; it flickered across his face. “But Uncle Gabriel never married.”
“He was secretly married. My mother died in childbirth. Those were her letters that I received at Lancer’s office,” she explained quickly and then sat down. “And now, Cousin Enfield, with your curiosity more than satiated, I must bid you a good morning.”
“Then you are afraid of ghosts,” Enfield began bitterly, “You would let superstition and fear stand in the way of… of… medical progress.”
Henri stood quickly, turned, and for a while gazed out the window that overlooked the bystreet. “Richard, you are absolutely right,” she said, then faced him again. “I mustn’t let fear and superstition hold me back.”
“Then you’ll buy it from me?”
“Once I look the place over.”
“When?”
“Why not right now?”
***
With the help of young Merrick the butler and a good deal of lard from the kitchen pantry they managed to unlock and open the door to the laboratory. The three entered, each with a lamp, to find a large room mostly taken up by a surgical theatre, a kind of amphitheatre built into the wall with wooden benches rising to the second story, all surrounding a central operating table.
Despite the brightness of the day, the room was barely lit from above. Henri looked up to see grime-covered cupolas high in the ceiling. More than a few were broken and there were pigeons nesting. She could hear their cooing and then startled wings flapping. In the dark shadows of the room itself, Henri could see stacks of wooden crates, and laden tables covered over with sheets to make strange, yet oddly familiar billowing shapes. In the corner of her eye she thought she detected movement, perhaps some rats, scurrying for a hole.
There was an indescribable smell to the place. Traces of chemicals mingled with the mustiness of age and neglect. It was almost noxious. Enfield offered Henri his handkerchief. She covered her mouth and nose.
“Jekyll bought this place from the family of a celebrated surgeon of yesteryear. Dr. Denman was his name,” Enfield broke the silence and his voice echoed. Then he started to cough.
At the far end of the building, a staircase led up to the small apartment that occupied most of the second story. The three trudged up quickly hoping the air was better to breathe. At the top of the stairs lay a broken door upholstered in red felt. It lay as if it had been smashed down just an hour ago. They stepped around it and entered Jekyll’s apartment. The air was no better upstairs, if anything the chemical smell was worse. Henri could taste it on her tongue and breathing was getting difficult.
Merrick immediately dashed over to the far wall and pulled down a huge drapery. Under it three windows let in a flood of daylight. Enfield came and they struggled to open the panes, but they were stuck fast from twenty-five years of disuse. Merrick looked frantically around the room then ran to the fireplace. He picked up a poker, ran back, and motioned Enfield away. He smashed at the glass across all three windows. Chilly spring air flooded in and they all rushed over for breath.
“Not a very auspicious beginning, Richard,” Henri said after quite a long time.
“I’m forced to agree,” Enfield returned and laughed with relief.
“I blame you, Richard, for this fiasco. It was irresponsible to entice us here this morning. You put our very lives in jeopardy,” Henri said scornfully and loud enough for Merrick to hear.
“But Henri, I was only— ” he started to protest but thought better of it.
Henri looked about and saw the glass cabinets that she played with as a child. They lined two walls of the room. A fireplace occupied much of another wall, with bookcases, and the door leading to the staircase that descended to the street. She walked around the room inspecting the desk and a large table covered with some chemical apparatus. She found another table overturned, with broken glass behind it. She stopped at an ornate cheval glass and glanced at her reflection.
“Seen enough?” Enfield called from across the room.
“I have. It could be quite suitable.” Henri walked over to Enfield and spoke quietly. “However, I should want to know more about the illustrious Dr. Jekyll. And this Mr. Hyde.”
“Why would you want to know more?” Enfield asked.
“How better to fight superstition and ignorance then with knowledge? The more I know, the less I have to fear.” She smiled politely.
“All I really know is written in my father’s old journals,” Enfield said slowly and made a gesture over at Merrick. “I don’t want to talk about it in front of the butler, Henri dear,” he added in a low whisper.
“Let me read the journals then,” she said.
Enfield paused a while to consider, then nodded yes.
“It’s settled then,” she said loudly. “Merrick?”
“Yes, Mistress?” he replied while picking up a scrap of crumpled paper from the floor.
“Firstly, thank you for saving our lives this morning.”
He gave a small gracious bow.
“Secondly, please take Mr. Enfield to the library and give him the envelope I mentioned.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Richard, take the envelope to Nicholas Lancer and he shall write you a check for the purchase of this building.”
Enfield seemed slightly stunned. “But you haven’t asked my price.”
“I know it’s enough to cover your gambling debts and keep Isabelle in the manner she is accustomed to. Need I know more?”
It was Enfield’s turn to bow and he left the room hurriedly.
“And Merrick… please make me a pot of coffee as well. We have an awful lot of work to do today.”
“Yes, Mistress,” he said and smiled then followed Enfield back to the house.
Alone in the room, Henri had a better chance to explore. She went first to the desk, but its drawers were completely empty. Then she searched through the glass presses and sifted through numerous vials of chemicals. Mostly all would have to be replaced, tainted by age and moisture. She examined an apparatus set up on the table and recognized something of what Dr. Jekyll had last been distilling. Still, there were certain baffling elements that greatly intrigued her.