It was late in the afternoon when Mr. Utterson arrived at Dr. Jekyll’s house.
Poole opened the door at once and led him through the kitchen area, across a yard that had once been a garden, and toward the building at the back.
The building had once been used by a famous surgeon as a laboratory and dissecting room. Jekyll had bought the house from the surgeon’s heirs and changed the building’s purpose to suit his own interest in chemistry.
This was the first time Utterson had ever entered this part of his friend’s home.
He looked around with curiosity.
The building was dark, dirty, and almost completely without windows.
The large room they crossed had once been filled with eager medical students. Now it stood empty and silent. Tables were covered with chemical equipment, while crates and packing straw were scattered across the floor.
Weak light filtered down through the fog-covered glass roof.
At the far end, a staircase led to a door covered in red cloth.
Poole opened it, and Utterson finally entered Jekyll’s private study.
It was a large room lined with glass cabinets. There was a full-length mirror, a writing desk, and three dusty windows overlooking the courtyard. Iron bars covered the windows.
A fire burned in the fireplace.
A lamp had already been lit on the mantel because the fog outside was growing thicker.
Dr. Jekyll sat close to the fire.
He looked terribly ill.
He did not get up to greet Utterson. He only held out a cold hand.
“Welcome, Utterson.”
His voice sounded strangely different.
As soon as Poole had left the room, Utterson spoke.
“And now, you’ve heard the news?”
Jekyll shuddered.
“They were shouting it in the square. I could hear them from my dining room.”
“Just one thing,” Utterson said. “Sir Danvers Carew was my client, but so are you. I need to know what I’m supposed to do.”
He paused.
“You haven’t been foolish enough to hide Hyde, have you?”
“Utterson, I swear to God,” Jekyll cried. “I swear I will never see that man again.”
He gripped the lawyer’s hand.
“I give you my word. I am finished with him forever. It is all over.”
He took a shaky breath.
“And he doesn’t need my help. You don’t know him the way I do. He is safe. Completely safe. Remember my words—no one will ever hear from him again.”
Utterson listened with a troubled expression.
He did not like the feverish way his friend was speaking.
“You sound very certain about him,” he said. “For your sake, I hope you’re right. If this case ever goes to trial, your name could come into it.”
“I am certain,” Jekyll replied. “I have reasons for knowing that which I cannot tell anyone.”
He looked down for a moment.
“But there is something you can advise me about.”
“What is it?”
“I received a letter.”
Jekyll hesitated.
“I don’t know whether I should show it to the police. I would rather put it in your hands, Utterson. You always make sensible judgments. I trust you more than anyone.”
“You’re afraid the letter might help the police find Hyde?”
“No.”
Jekyll’s voice became strangely calm.
“I don’t care what happens to Hyde anymore. I am completely finished with him.”
“Then what worries you?”
“My reputation.”
He looked toward the fire.
“This whole affair has exposed me to a danger I never expected.”
Utterson thought about this for a moment.
He was surprised by what sounded like selfishness in his friend. Yet, in a strange way, he was also relieved. At least Jekyll seemed more concerned about his own reputation than about protecting Hyde.
“All right,” he said. “Let me see the letter.”
Jekyll handed it to him.
The letter was written in an unusual, upright handwriting.
It was signed, “Edward Hyde.”
The message was short.
Hyde wrote that his benefactor, Dr. Jekyll, had been far too generous to him over the years, and that he had repaid that kindness badly. But Jekyll had no reason to fear for his safety.
Hyde claimed that he had a reliable way to escape and would be able to disappear whenever necessary.
Utterson was surprised.
The letter made Hyde and Jekyll’s relationship seem much less sinister than he had imagined.
He even felt guilty for some of his earlier suspicions.
“Do you still have the envelope?”
“I burned it,” Jekyll replied.
He gave an embarrassed shrug.
“I burned it before I stopped to think.”
“Did it have a postmark?”
“No. And the letter was delivered by hand.”
Utterson looked at the paper again.
“Would you like me to keep this and think about it overnight?”
“I want you to decide what I should do,” Jekyll said. “I no longer trust my own judgment.”
“All right. I’ll consider it.”
Utterson paused.
“One more question. Hyde was the one who made you put that strange condition into your will about your disappearance, wasn’t he?”
Jekyll suddenly looked as if he might faint.
He closed his mouth tightly.
Then he nodded.
“I knew it,” Utterson said. “That man intended to murder you. You were lucky to escape him.”
Jekyll looked deeply shaken.
“I have had something much more important than an escape,” he said quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“I have learned a lesson.”
He covered his face with both hands.
“Oh, Utterson, what a lesson I have learned.”
As Utterson was leaving, he stopped to speak with Poole.
“By the way,” he said, “a letter was delivered today. What did the messenger look like?”
Poole looked puzzled.
“There was no messenger, sir. Nothing came except the post.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing at all, sir. And even in the post, there were only circulars.”
Utterson left with his suspicions stronger than before.
If Poole was telling the truth, the letter must have come through the laboratory door.
Perhaps Hyde had even written it inside Jekyll’s study.
If that was the case, the letter had to be treated very differently—and with much greater caution.
As Utterson walked home, newspaper boys were shouting themselves hoarse along the streets.
“Special edition! Shocking murder of an M.P.!”
The words announced the death of one of Utterson’s friends and clients.
And he could not stop worrying that the scandal might drag another good man’s name into the mud.
He had a difficult decision to make.
Utterson was usually confident in his own judgment.
But now he found himself wishing he could ask someone for advice.
He could not ask directly.
Perhaps, he thought, he could find a way to get advice without revealing too much.
Later that evening, Utterson sat beside his fireplace with his chief clerk, Mr. Guest, sitting opposite him.
Between them stood a bottle of very old wine that had been stored beneath Utterson’s house for many years.
Outside, the fog still covered London.
The street lamps glowed faintly through the mist.
The noise of the city seemed to roll through the streets like a powerful wind.
But inside the room, the fire made everything warm and bright.
Utterson slowly relaxed.
There were very few people from whom he kept fewer secrets than Mr. Guest.
In fact, he sometimes suspected that he told Guest more than he intended.
Guest had often visited Dr. Jekyll’s house on business.
He knew Poole.
He must also have noticed how familiar Hyde had become around the house.
Perhaps he had already drawn his own conclusions.
So why not show him the letter?
After all, Guest was an expert in handwriting.
He could examine the letter without finding anything suspicious about the request.
And perhaps his reaction would give Utterson the advice he needed.
“This is a terrible business about Sir Danvers,” Utterson said.
“Yes, sir. It certainly has caused a great deal of public outrage,” Guest replied.
“The man must have been insane.”
“I’d like to hear what you think about that,” Utterson said.
He reached for the letter.
“I have something here written in his hand. I’m not sure what to do with it. It’s a disturbing business.”
He placed the paper on the table.
“But it happens to be exactly the sort of thing you’re interested in.”
Guest looked at the letter.
“A murderer’s handwriting.”
Guest’s eyes immediately lit up.
He sat down and began studying the writing carefully.
“No, sir,” he said. “I wouldn’t call the writer insane.”
He looked closer.
“But it certainly is an unusual hand.”
“And from what we know, the writer himself was certainly unusual,” Utterson said.
At that moment, a servant entered carrying another note.
“Is that from Dr. Jekyll, sir?” Guest asked.
“I thought I recognized the handwriting.”
He looked at Utterson.
“Is it private?”
“It’s only an invitation to dinner.”
Utterson smiled.
“Why? Would you like to see it?”
“Just for a moment, sir. Thank you.”
Guest placed Jekyll’s note beside Hyde’s letter.
Then he carefully compared the two pieces of handwriting.
After a long examination, he handed both papers back.
“Thank you, sir.”
He smiled faintly.
“That is a very interesting handwriting sample.”
Utterson said nothing.
For a moment, the room was silent.
The lawyer was struggling with himself.
Finally, he asked:
“Why did you compare them, Guest?”
“Well, sir…”
Guest hesitated.
“There’s something rather strange about them.”
“What is that?”
“The two handwriting styles are very similar in several ways.”
Utterson stared at him.
“But they have different slants.”
“Yes, sir. The writing is tilted differently.”
“Interesting,” Utterson said.
“It certainly is,” Guest replied.
Utterson looked at him seriously.
“You won’t mention this note to anyone, will you?”
“No, sir. Of course not.”
“I knew I could trust you.”
That night, as soon as Utterson was alone, he locked Jekyll’s note inside his safe.
He would keep it there from that moment on.
He stood staring at the safe, his face pale.
“Good God,” he thought.
“Henry Jekyll forged a murderer’s handwriting.”
A chill ran through his entire body.