One evening after dinner, Mr. Utterson was sitting beside his fire when Poole suddenly arrived at his house.
“Poole? What brings you here?” Utterson asked.
Then he looked at the butler more closely.
“What’s wrong with you? Is the doctor ill?”
“Mr. Utterson, sir, something is very wrong.”
“Sit down. Have some wine,” Utterson said. “Take your time and tell me exactly what has happened.”
“You know how the doctor lives, sir. He shuts himself away from everyone. Well, he has locked himself in the cabinet again. But this time, I don’t like it. Not at all.”
Poole lowered his eyes.
“Mr. Utterson, sir, I’m frightened.”
“Tell me clearly. What are you afraid of?”
“I’ve been afraid for nearly a week,” Poole said stubbornly. “And I can’t take it anymore.”
His appearance made his words believable. He looked exhausted and deeply disturbed. He had barely looked Utterson in the face since arriving. Even now, the untouched wine rested on his knee while he stared at the floor.
“I can’t take it anymore,” he repeated.
“Come, Poole,” Utterson said gently. “I can see that you have a serious reason for coming here. Tell me what it is.”
“I think someone has murdered him,” Poole whispered.
“Murdered him?” Utterson cried.
He was frightened, but the absurdity of the idea also irritated him.
“What murder? What are you talking about?”
“I don’t dare say, sir. But will you come with me and see for yourself?”
Utterson said nothing.
He simply stood, put on his hat and greatcoat, and followed Poole.
As they left, he noticed how much relief appeared on the butler’s face. He also noticed that Poole had never touched his wine.
It was a bitterly cold night in March. The wind tore through the streets, driving clouds across the pale moon. It was so strong that speaking was difficult, and the cold air stung their faces.
The streets were almost completely empty.
Utterson found himself wishing they were crowded. Never before had he felt such a strong need to see other people. A terrible feeling had settled over him, as though something dreadful was about to happen.
When they reached the square, the wind was even stronger. Dust raced across the pavement, and the thin trees in the garden bent and whipped against the railings.
Poole had walked a few steps ahead of him the whole way. Now he stopped.
Even though it was freezing, he removed his hat and wiped his forehead with a red handkerchief.
He was not sweating from the walk.
His face was white with fear.
“Well, sir,” he said in a broken voice, “here we are. God help us if something has happened.”
“Amen, Poole,” Utterson replied.
Poole knocked quietly on the door.
It opened only a little, held by the chain.
A voice called from inside.
“Is that you, Poole?”
“It’s all right,” Poole answered. “Open the door.”
The door opened.
The entrance hall was brightly lit, and a large fire burned in the fireplace. All the servants were gathered around it, men and women standing close together like frightened animals.
When the housemaid saw Utterson, she began to sob uncontrollably.
The cook cried out, “Thank God! It’s Mr. Utterson!”
She rushed toward him as though she wanted to throw her arms around him.
“What is this?” Utterson said irritably. “Why are you all here? This is completely improper. Your master would never approve.”
“They’re all frightened, sir,” Poole said.
Nobody argued.
The maid continued crying.
“Be quiet!” Poole suddenly snapped.
His voice was so harsh that everyone jumped. They all turned toward the inner door, their faces filled with fear.
Poole turned to one of the younger servants.
“Bring me a candle. We have to finish this now.”
Then he turned to Utterson.
“Come with me, sir.”
He led him through the back garden toward the laboratory.
“Walk as quietly as you can,” Poole whispered. “I want you to hear what’s happening without anyone hearing us.”
He stopped and looked seriously at Utterson.
“And one more thing, sir. If he asks you to come inside, don’t go.”
Utterson felt a sudden chill.
He forced himself to remain calm and followed Poole into the laboratory building.
They passed through the old operating theatre, crowded with crates and bottles, and reached the bottom of the stairs leading to the cabinet.
Poole motioned for Utterson to stay where he was.
“Listen.”
Poole put down the candle, gathered his courage, climbed the stairs, and knocked uncertainly on the red door.
“Dr. Jekyll, sir. Mr. Utterson is here and wishes to see you.”
Then Poole quickly gestured for Utterson to listen carefully.
A voice answered from inside.
“Tell him I cannot see anyone.”
Poole immediately picked up the candle.
“Thank you, sir.”
He led Utterson back across the yard and into the large kitchen.
The fire had gone out, and insects were crawling across the floor.
Poole turned to the lawyer.
“Sir, was that my master’s voice?”
“It sounded very different,” Utterson replied.
His face had gone pale.
“Different?” Poole said. “Yes. Very different.”
He shook his head.
“I’ve worked in this house for twenty years. Do you really think I could mistake my master’s voice?”
“No, sir. Something has happened to him.”
Poole’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“My master was killed eight days ago. That’s what I believe. That was the night we heard him crying out to God.”
Utterson stared at him.
“And who is in that room now?” Poole continued. “And why is it staying there? That’s what I want to know.”
“That is a very strange story, Poole,” Utterson said. “Think about it. Suppose Dr. Jekyll really was murdered. Why would the murderer stay locked inside his room?”
Poole shook his head.
“I knew you would say that, sir. But I can prove something is wrong.”
He leaned closer.
“For the whole of this past week, whoever is in that cabinet has been demanding medicine. Constantly.”
“Medicine?”
“Yes. And nothing seems good enough.”
Poole took a breath.
“You know how the doctor used to write orders on pieces of paper and throw them down the stairs?”
Utterson nodded.
“This week, that’s all we’ve received. Notes. Orders. Complaints. The door stays locked, and meals are left outside until nobody is watching.”
“What kind of medicine?”
“I don’t know. But he wants it desperately.”
Poole continued.
“Every day, sometimes two or three times a day, another note comes down. I’ve been running all over London to the chemical suppliers.”
“And every time you bring something back?”
“There’s another note telling me to return it. He says it isn’t pure enough. Then he orders from another company.”
“What does he need so badly?”
“I don’t know, sir. But whatever it is, he needs it desperately.”
“Do you still have any of those notes?”
Poole reached into his pocket and handed one to Utterson.
Utterson held it close to the candle and read it carefully.
It was written in Dr. Jekyll’s handwriting.
The note said that the medicine supplied by Maw was impure and useless. Jekyll asked the company to search their old stock and find some of the same quality they had sold him years before.
He offered to pay any price.
At the end of the note, the handwriting became frantic.
“For God’s sake, find me some of the old.”
Utterson stared at the paper.
“This is very strange.”
Then he looked up sharply.
“How did you get this? Was it opened?”
“The man at Maw’s was angry, sir. He threw it back at me.”
“This is definitely the doctor’s handwriting, isn’t it?”
“I thought it looked like his.”
Poole paused.
“But what does the handwriting matter?”
Utterson looked at him.
“I’ve seen him.”
“You’ve seen Dr. Jekyll?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When?”
“That’s the worst part.”
Poole swallowed.
“I came into the theatre from the garden without warning. The cabinet door was open.”
Utterson listened silently.
“He had apparently left the cabinet to search for the medicine. He was at the far end of the room, searching through the crates.”
“What happened?”
“He looked up and saw me.”
Poole’s voice trembled.
“He made a strange cry and ran upstairs into the cabinet.”
“You saw him clearly?”
“For maybe a minute.”
Poole rubbed his face.
“But that minute was enough to make my hair stand on end.”
“Why?”
“He was wearing a mask.”
“A mask?”
“Yes. And if that was really my master, why would he wear a mask when he was alone in his own house?”
Poole looked at Utterson.
“And if it was my master, why did he make that horrible little cry and run away from me like a frightened animal?”
He stopped speaking.
Utterson considered everything he had heard.
“These circumstances are certainly strange,” he said. “But I think I can explain them.”
Poole looked doubtful.
“Your master may have developed some terrible illness. Some diseases can change a person’s body and even affect his voice.”
He continued.
“That would explain the strange voice. It could explain the mask and why he avoids his friends. And it would explain why he is desperately searching for medicine. Perhaps he believes this drug can save him.”
Utterson sighed.
“It is a terrible situation, Poole. But this explanation is simple and reasonable. It makes more sense than assuming someone has murdered him.”
Poole’s face became pale.
“Sir, that thing was not my master.”
Utterson started to object.
Poole raised his hand.
“My master is a tall, well-built man. The creature I saw was much smaller.”
He stared at Utterson.
“Do you think I don’t know my master after twenty years? I know exactly how tall he is. I know where his head reaches when he stands inside that doorway. I’ve seen him there every morning for twenty years.”
His voice shook.
“That thing wearing the mask was never Dr. Jekyll.”
“Then what was it?”
“I don’t know.”
Poole whispered:
“God knows what it was. But it wasn’t Dr. Jekyll.”
He looked toward the cabinet.
“I believe my master has been murdered.”
Utterson was silent for a moment.
“Poole, if you truly believe that, then I have no choice. I must find out what is behind that door.”
He glanced at the note in his hand.
“I still don’t understand this letter. It seems to prove that Jekyll is alive. But if you are right, I have to investigate.”
Poole’s expression changed immediately.
“Now you’re talking, Mr. Utterson.”
“There is another question,” Utterson said. “Who will break the door?”
“You and me, sir.”
Utterson nodded.
“Very well. Whatever happens, I will make sure you are not blamed.”
“There’s an axe in the theatre,” Poole said. “You can take the kitchen poker.”
Utterson picked up the heavy iron poker and tested its weight.
“Poole, do you understand that we may be putting ourselves in danger?”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
“Then we should be honest with each other. We are both thinking more than we have said.”
Utterson looked directly at him.
“The masked creature you saw. Did you recognize it?”
“I can’t swear to it. It moved too quickly, and it was bent over almost like an animal.”
Poole hesitated.
“But if you’re asking whether I think it was Mr. Hyde—yes, sir. I think it was.”
“Why?”
“It was about the same size. It moved in that same quick, light way.”
Poole lowered his voice.
“And who else could have entered through the laboratory door? You remember that Mr. Hyde still had the key when Sir Danvers Carew was murdered.”
Utterson nodded.
“You’ve met Mr. Hyde, haven’t you?”
“Yes. I spoke to him once.”
“Then you know what the rest of us felt about him.”
“What do you mean?”
Poole struggled to find the words.
“There was something wrong about that man. Something that made you feel cold inside.”
Utterson nodded slowly.
“I felt something like that myself.”
“Exactly.”
Poole’s voice trembled.
“When that masked thing suddenly jumped out from among the chemicals and rushed into the cabinet, I felt ice run down my spine.”
He looked at Utterson.
“I know that isn’t evidence. I’m educated enough to know that. But sometimes a man knows something in his heart.”
He placed a hand over his chest.
“I swear to you, sir, that creature was Mr. Hyde.”
Utterson sighed.
“My fears point in the same direction.”
He looked toward the cabinet.
“Something evil was bound to come from that connection.”
He paused.
“I believe you, Poole. I believe poor Harry has been murdered.”
His grip tightened around the poker.
“And I believe his murderer is still hiding in his room.”
He turned toward the servants.
“Call Bradshaw.”
The footman came forward, his face white with fear.
“Pull yourself together, Bradshaw,” Utterson said. “I know this waiting has been terrible for all of you. But we are going to end it tonight.”
He pointed toward the laboratory.
“Poole and I are going to force our way into the cabinet.”
“If everything is fine, I will take responsibility for breaking the door. But if there really is a criminal inside, we must make sure he cannot escape through the back.”
He looked at Bradshaw.
“You and the boy must take two heavy sticks and guard the laboratory entrance from the street.”
“Understood, sir.”
“You have ten minutes to get into position.”
Bradshaw hurried away.
Utterson checked his watch.
“Now, Poole, let’s get ready.”
They walked into the yard.
The clouds had covered the moon, leaving everything in darkness. The wind came rushing through the narrow space between the buildings, making the candle flame dance wildly.
They entered the theatre and sat down in silence.
All around them, London continued its deep nighttime murmur.
But inside the building, there was almost complete silence.
Almost.
From upstairs came the sound of footsteps.
Someone was walking back and forth inside the cabinet.
Poole leaned toward Utterson.
“He walks like that all day, sir.”
He listened.
“And most of the night, too.”
“Does he ever stop?”
“Only when a new sample arrives from the chemist.”
Poole sighed.
“A guilty conscience doesn’t let a man rest.”
He listened again.
“There’s blood behind every one of those steps, sir.”
Then he whispered:
“Listen carefully.”
The footsteps continued.
“Tell me, Mr. Utterson. Is that the doctor’s walk?”
Utterson listened.
The footsteps were strangely light. Even though they moved slowly, there was an odd spring in them.
They were nothing like Henry Jekyll’s heavy, dragging footsteps.
Utterson sighed.
“Does he ever do anything else?”
Poole nodded.
“Once.”
“What happened?”
“I heard him crying.”
Utterson felt a sudden chill.
“Crying?”
“Yes.”
Poole lowered his voice.
“He was crying like a woman. Or like someone who had completely lost his soul.”
He swallowed.
“I walked away from that sound with such sadness in my heart that I nearly cried myself.”
The ten minutes were almost over.
Poole pulled the axe from beneath a pile of packing straw.
They placed the candle on a nearby table.
Then the two men approached the cabinet.
The footsteps were still moving back and forth.
Back and forth.
Utterson took a deep breath.
“Jekyll!”
His voice echoed through the building.
“I demand to see you.”
There was no answer.
“I am warning you,” Utterson continued. “We have serious reasons to believe something is wrong.”
He raised his voice.
“I must see you. If you will not open the door willingly, we will force it open.”
A voice came from inside.
“Utterson!”
It sounded terrified.
“For God’s sake, have mercy!”
Utterson froze.
“That is not Jekyll’s voice.”
He turned to Poole.
“It’s Hyde!”
“Break down the door!”
Poole lifted the axe over his shoulder.
He swung.
The blow shook the entire building.
The red door slammed against its lock and hinges.
From inside came a horrible scream, like an animal caught in a trap.
Poole raised the axe again.
Another blow.
The panels cracked.
The frame shook.
Again.
And again.
Four blows fell.
The door was strong, and the workmanship was excellent.
But on the fifth blow, the lock finally broke.
The door crashed inward onto the carpet.
Utterson and Poole stepped back.
For a moment, neither man moved.
Then they slowly looked inside.
The cabinet was strangely peaceful.
A bright fire burned in the fireplace.
A kettle was quietly singing.
Several drawers stood open.
Papers were neatly arranged across the desk.
Near the fire, everything needed for tea had been prepared.
Apart from the shelves of chemicals, it looked like an ordinary, comfortable room.
Then they saw the body.
A man lay twisted on the floor in the middle of the room.
His body was still twitching.
They approached carefully.
Poole and Utterson turned him onto his back.
The face belonged to Edward Hyde.
He was wearing clothes far too large for him—the doctor’s clothes.
His face still seemed to move slightly, as though some life remained.
But he was dead.
In his hand was a crushed glass bottle.
A strong smell filled the room.
Utterson immediately understood.
“He killed himself.”
He stared down at Hyde.
“We came too late.”
He sighed.
“Too late to save him, and too late to punish him.”
Utterson looked around the room.
“Hyde is dead. Now we have to find Dr. Jekyll.”
Most of the building consisted of the theatre on the ground floor and the cabinet above it at one end.
A corridor connected the theatre to the street.
The cabinet had its own staircase.
There were also several small, dark rooms and a large cellar.
They searched everything.
The small rooms were empty.
Dust covered their doors, showing that they had not been opened for years.
The cellar was filled with old furniture and equipment left behind by the surgeon who had owned the building before Jekyll.
But there was no need to search it carefully.
When they opened the cellar door, an enormous sheet of cobwebs fell across the entrance.
Nobody had entered that place for years.
There was no sign of Henry Jekyll.
Not dead.
Not alive.
Poole stamped his foot against the corridor floor.
“He must be hiding somewhere underneath us.”
“Or he escaped,” Utterson replied.
They went to the door leading to the street.
It was locked.
Nearby, they found the key lying on the floor.
It was covered with rust.
“That key hasn’t been used for a long time,” Utterson said.
Poole stared at it.
“Look at it, sir. It’s broken.”
Utterson examined it.
“It looks as if someone stamped on it.”
“Yes.”
Utterson studied the broken pieces.
“And the cracks are rusty too.”
The two men looked at each other.
“This is beyond me, Poole,” Utterson said.
“Let’s go back to the cabinet.”
They climbed the stairs in silence.
Even now, they could not stop glancing at Hyde’s body.
Back inside the cabinet, they searched the room more carefully.
On one table, they found signs of chemical experiments.
Several small piles of white powder had been carefully measured onto glass dishes.
Poole recognized them immediately.
“That’s the same medicine I’ve been bringing him.”
At that moment, the kettle suddenly boiled over with a loud hiss.
They turned toward the fireplace.
A comfortable chair stood beside it.
The tea had already been prepared.
The cup was waiting.
Even the sugar had been placed inside it.
Utterson noticed several books on a shelf.
One lay open beside the tea.
He picked it up.
He was shocked to discover that it was a religious book that Jekyll had always spoken highly of.
But someone had written terrible blasphemies all over its pages.
The handwriting was Jekyll’s.
Utterson slowly put the book down.
Then they came to the large standing mirror.
Both men looked into it with an uneasy feeling.
But the mirror had been turned away from the room.
It reflected only the warm glow of the fire on the ceiling, the flames shining again and again in the glass doors of the chemical cabinets, and the pale, frightened faces of Utterson and Poole.
Poole whispered:
“This mirror has seen some strange things, sir.”
“And surely nothing stranger than the mirror itself,” Utterson whispered back.
He stopped.
“Why would Jekyll—”
He caught himself.
“Why would Jekyll need a mirror?”
Poole looked at him.
“That is exactly what I wonder.”
They moved on to the writing desk.
Among the neatly arranged papers lay a large envelope.
It was addressed to Mr. Utterson in Dr. Jekyll’s handwriting.
Utterson opened it.
Several documents fell onto the floor.
The first was a will.
It was written in the same strange terms as the will Utterson had rejected six months earlier.
Under the old arrangement, Edward Hyde would inherit everything if Jekyll died or disappeared.
But this time, the name had been changed.
The beneficiary was Gabriel John Utterson.
Utterson stared at the paper in disbelief.
Then he looked at Poole.
Then at the document again.
Finally, he looked at Hyde’s dead body.
“My head is spinning,” he said.
“Hyde had everything. He had no reason to like me. He must have been furious when he saw that Jekyll had replaced him.”
He shook his head.
“And yet he didn’t destroy this will.”
Utterson picked up the next document.
It was a short note in Jekyll’s handwriting.
He read the date.
Then his expression changed.
“Poole!”
“What is it, sir?”
“Jekyll was alive today.”
He looked around the room.
“He couldn’t have been killed and turned into that body so quickly.”
Utterson’s thoughts raced.
“He must have escaped.”
“But why would he escape?”
“And how?”
He looked at Hyde’s body.
“If Jekyll really fled, then perhaps this wasn’t suicide at all.”
He lowered the paper.
“We must be extremely careful. We may still discover something terrible that could destroy your master’s reputation.”
Poole looked at him.
“Why don’t you read the letter, sir?”
Utterson hesitated.
“Because I’m afraid of what it might say.”
He looked down at the page.
“God grant that I have no reason to be.”
Then he began to read.
“My dear Utterson,
“When you receive this letter, I will have disappeared. I cannot tell you exactly what will happen to me, but I have a terrible feeling that the end is near.
“First, go and read the account that Dr. Lanyon warned me he would leave for you.
“If you still want to know the whole truth, then read my confession.
“Your unhappy and unworthy friend,
“Henry Jekyll.”
Utterson looked up.
“There was another document?”
Poole handed him a thick packet.
“Here, sir.”
It was sealed in several places.
Utterson put it carefully into his pocket.
“I will say nothing about this for now.”
He looked toward Hyde’s body.
“If your master has escaped, or if he is dead, we may still be able to protect his reputation.”
He checked his watch.
“It’s ten o’clock. I’m going home to read these documents in peace.”
He turned toward Poole.
“I’ll return before midnight. Then we’ll call the police.”
They left the cabinet and locked the theatre door behind them.
The servants were still gathered around the fire in the entrance hall.
Utterson said nothing to them.
He simply walked out into the cold night and made his way back to his office.
There, he would read the two accounts that promised to reveal the terrible truth behind the mystery of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.