Norton, Andre - Novel 39 (6 page)

 
          
 
"You are new to
London
, my gel. Therefore you would see much that
would not be clouded by prejudice. I think"—she planted one broad elbow on
the desk with her hand supporting her layered chin—"that we need a fresh
outlook, a very fresh one. So what do you say,
Miss Lane
? I shall wish perhaps a series of
articles—from what I have heard there is plenty to write about. You would be
put on staff rates, and I think that this, if done well, could be for you a
good opening into the field."

 
          
 
"No!" The instant protest came from
Prothore. "Listen to me,
Miss Lane
. You certainly do not want to become the
target of gossip, to follow a course which, were it uncovered, would be
unwelcome in any assembly of your sex— “

 
          
 
"You"—Miss Scrimshaw's pudgy
forefinger pointed to the still partly open door between Hester and her
cousin—"go
, Albert. I would lay a wager with you—if you
were in the least open-minded—that this gel shall learn more than you will ever
uncover for that sensation-seeking employer of yours. Meanwhile, this is a
place of business and you are disrupting my business— “

 
          
 
Ignoring his aunt's heated words, Prothore
turned to Hester. "It is all
madness,
do not let
yourself be drawn into her experiment." He did not name his kinswoman,
only nodded slightly in Miss Scrimshaw's direction. "It is rank and utter
folly, and she knows it too!"

 
          
 
Miss Scrimshaw ignored him. "What about
it, gel? Do you think you are writer enough to give the B.L. a picture of what
happens on the side streets, of this town, while ladies ride snug in their
barouches on the avenues?"

 
          
 
Hester drew a deep breath. She knew as well as
this prig Prothore that her decision might be the greatest folly. Still— as
Miss Scrimshaw had pointed out—it might also give her firm standing in the
world she had so long desired to enter. For so many years she had yearned to
escape that musty and silent web of scholarship that held nothing for her. What
other post was there for a proper female?

 
          
 
"Yes."
Though
saying that made her suddenly breathless.

 
          
 
Mr. Prothore scowled more heavily.
"All right."
He spoke directly to Miss Scrimshaw.
"I will get your story for you!"

 
          
 
"
Miss Lane
has accepted." Agatha Scrimshaw gave a
vigorous nod of her head, so that the crest of feathers was flung about as it
might be under a breeze. "Go your own way, Albert. But I hardly think you
are one to dig deep enough— even to please Sir John."

 
          
 
Prothore moved toward Hester, as if he were
about to shove her back through the door.

 
          
 
"Don't do it!" It was not said
imploringly—she did not believe that this stiff young man had ever experienced
the need to plead for anything—but rather as
an
order.

 
          
 
Hester moved a little to one side away from
him. Thankfully she discovered she was able to meet his gaze levelly as she
answered.

 
          
 
"I have already given my word!" Then
she dared to add a dismissal.

 
          
 
"Good day, sir."

 
          
 
Miss Scrimshaw laughed. Prothore's lips were
set tightly together as he passed Hester, slamming the door behind him. The
girl felt a little qualm then. This was indeed taking charge of her own life
and she hoped she wouldn't regret it.

 
          
 
If it were not for the grime on the windowpane
and the fog beyond it, Inspector Newcomen could almost see the lion-guarded
grandeur of
Trafalgar Square
. But even such a sight was hardly
compensation for his present surroundings. The lack of central heating or even
the presence of a fireplace literally sent a chill down his spine during a good
eight months out of every year; warmer weather afforded little relief, for want
of adequate ventilation. At this moment the dimly lit cubbyhole that served in
lieu of an office, shared with two others of equal rank, was musty and dank.

 
          
 
Wedged behind his battered rolltop desk in the
corner, Newcomen gazed glumly on his surroundings. Even though his fellow
officers were absent from their own desks at the moment, he still felt a sense
of vague oppression when confined here. And confinement it truly was; there
were felons in Newgate Prison incarcerated more comfortably than he was here in
Scotland Yard.

 
          
 
There was
no yard area on
the short and narrow thoroughfare beyond nor
any hint of
Scotland
; long centuries ago a palace had been
reared on this site to provide accommodations during the royal visits of
Scottish kings. But there was nothing palatial about the present structure.
Metropolitan Police Commissioner Sir Edmund Henderson promised a new Yard in a
new location within a few years; meanwhile, his officers must serve their
sentences in this creaking, crumbling gaol.

 
          
 
The flickering gaslight cast Newcomen's shadow
on the wall and did nothing to disperse the shadow of melancholy overcasting
his spirits.

 
          
 
Ever since his meeting with Utterson earlier
in the day he'd been troubled by persistent unease, and now with the coming of
twilight his mood intensified. From past experience Newcomen realized there was
only one way to dispel such a difficulty. He must meet the problem head-on and
overcome it.

 
          
 
A hard case.
Or, as his father had been wont to say, a tough nut to crack.
A question formed its kernel; was Utter-son lying or not?

 
          
 
If the solicitor had been telling the truth,
it was only in part. Too much was still unaccounted for, particularly
concerning Dr. Jekyll's friendship with the shadowy Mr. Hyde.

 
          
 
Shadowy.
Again
Inspector Newcomen glanced at his silhouette wavering on the wall. Additional
light would dispel that, but it would take a different sort of illumination to
erase the shadow of Edward Hyde. Shade, perhaps, for Hyde was dead.

 
          
 
At least there was no uncertainty about that
fact, or the coroner's verdict of suicide. But a new doubt had arisen to
trouble the inspector since he had seen Dr. Jekyll's will.

 
          
 
He kept thinking about that altered clause.
Dr. Jekyll's original intent had been to leave his entire estate to Edward
Hyde. Was Hyde aware of this fact? Given the man's history, his knowledge of
the clause might well have prompted him to murder his benefactor. Instead he
killed himself, and it was Jekyll who remained alive. Or was he? If so, why
hadn't he come forward? It was still possible that Hyde disposed of his
longtime friend before doing away with himself. But should this be true, how
and where had the deed been done and what had become of the corpus delicti?

 
          
 
Newcomen pursed his lips.
Questions
within questions.
Do shadows cast shadows of their own?

 
          
 
In this case, yes. The shadows cast by Hyde in
life had been ominous indeed. Newcomen remembered the accounts of his
activities; the trampling of an innocent child in the street, the savage murder
of an old man in a deserted lane. The name of the little girl who had been the
object of Hyde's callous cruelty was unknown to witnesses, but the old man—Sir
Danvers Carew—was easily identified. The sole witness to this particular crime
had been a maidservant peering through the upstairs window of a nearby
residence; according to her account killer and victim seemingly encountered one
another by chance and only a few words were exchanged in the darkened lane
before the man she identified as Edward Hyde struck Carew with his heavy cane.
When the old man fell he was beaten senseless, then battered to death with such
ferocity that the stout wood splintered and the weapon broke in two. The vision
of that shattered cane and the mangled corpse beside it remained vivid in
New-comen's memory.

 
          
 
But Edward Hyde was still a shadow. And the
visit with Utterson led nowhere. Aside from the solicitor there was probably
only one person who might shed light upon the matter—Jekyll's butler,
Poole
. He had been present on the occasion of
Hyde's death and he gave testimony at the brief inquest where suicide was
established. At the time Dr. Jekyll's absence didn't enter into the formal
investigation, so
Poole
was required to say little about it. Now
Newcomen wanted to hear more.

 
          
 
He leaned back, frowning to himself as he
recalled Utterson's excuse for dismissing Dr. Jekyll's household staff and his
disclaimer regarding their whereabouts. Surely the solicitor must have had a
long acquaintance with the elderly butler who had spent twenty years in
service. And
Poole
had known Utterson well enough to call upon
him at his home in one instance at his master's bidding.

 
          
 
It was possible that the solicitor was
deliberately concealing the knowledge of where
Poole
might be found. As to motive, again
Newcomen bethought himself of the bequest. That would be reason enough for
Utterson to discourage further investigation, particularly if it might lead to
suspicions regarding the circumstances under which the will had been altered.

 
          
 
Inspector Newcomen rose and paced the floor.
Not much of a trudge, really; a mere half-dozen steps brought him to the grimy
windowpane, and upon turning, the ancient floorboards creaked only seven times
before he came abreast of the doorway at the other end of the room. The sound
of his footsteps distracted him, but there was no help for it. Bare wood was
good enough for Scotland Yard inspectors; carpets were for kings.

 
          
 
The descent of darkness beyond the windowpane
prompted the inspector to consult his watch.

 
          
 
Donning his coat and bowler, he extinguished
the gas and stepped out into the drafty hall. As Newcomen made his way to the
stairs, he exchanged greetings with several of his fellows who were arriving on
night duty. Once he reached the lower landing the inspector sought an
inconspicuous side exit leading to the street. Here the fog was beginning to
lower and he raised his coat collar to ward chill from his cheeks.

 
          
 
The exit he had chosen shortened the route to
Trafalgar Square
. Atop the Corinthian column Lord Nelson
peered down through swirls of fog, his one-eyed stony stare fixed on the blaze
of light below. Inspector Newcomen, his own eyes intent on the bustle of
traffic, headed for the cab stand at the nearby curbing. As he did so, church
bells chimed the hour.

 
          
 
Seven o'clock
it was, precisely on the dot, and Jerry was
waiting.

 
          
 
The man on the box of the cab nodded as
Newcomen approached. "Evenin', Inspector," he said.
"Where to?"

 
          
 
"Home."

 
          
 
"Can't say as 'aow I blame you," the
cabby said, descending from his perch to close the door as Newcomen settled
himself inside. "It
don't
look to be a proper
night to prowl abaht."

 
          
 
"Sorry you feel that way," the
inspector told him. "It so happens I had an errand for you in mind."

 
          
 
"Errand?"
The cabby's smile expanded into a toby-jug grin.
"'Appy
to be of service.
Yours to command an' no questions
arsked."

 
          
 
"But that's the job—asking
questions." Newcomen nodded in abrupt dismissal. "Up you go again,
and get cracking. On the way home I'll tell you what's wanted."

 
          
 
He did so, and by the time they pulled up
before Newcomen's lodgings on
Bayswater Road
, the cabby had been provided with
information necessary for the task before him. This, plus his fare, a generous
tip, and the promise of a further fee if his mission was successful, sent Jerry
off into the fog with a cheery whistle.

 
          
 
Whether
that whistle
was directed at his patient horse or intended as a farewell to Newcomen himself
didn't greatly matter. As the inspector made his way into the welcome warmth of
the hall beyond the entrance, what mattered to him was whether or not he might
have to whistle for his money. Gab fare and tip were his obligation and he
preferred to pay extra rather than brave the rigors of public transport on a
cold and clammy night following a long day's duties. But he could be out of
pocket for the fee he'd promised Jerry; only in special instances did his
superiors at the Yard repay him for extra expenditures. Pity they weren't
employed by the Chancellor of the Exchequer; their stingy, mingy ways would be
of more value in that branch of government.

 
          
 
Newcomen plodded upstairs to his bachelor
quarters, changed into more comfortable attire, plodded downstairs to take
dinner with the other boarders. This being
eight o'clock
of a Wednesday, it was mutton as usual, but
he paid little heed to what he ate or to the conversation of his companions.
His thoughts were far away in the fog, following Jerry to destinations unknown.

 
          
 
Once back in his room he settled before the
fireplace, enjoying the solitary vice of a Trichinopoly, the smoke of which
mingled with the gas flame flaring before him. The warmth soothed him but he
could not relax completely, knowing himself to be a fool. Cab fares, cigars,
fees
to informants—no wonder he was fated to live out his
days in a rented room rather than a proper flat of his own, complete with
housekeeper and a decent cut of beef on the dinner table.

 
          
 
He was a fool, and it was sheer folly to fancy
the Yard paying for any money he laid out in Jerry's behalf. While the question
of Dr. Henry JekylFs present whereabouts was still of interest to the
authorities, it was not presently of pressing concern. What's more, Newcomen
had never been officially assigned to the case, if case it was. Nothing had
prompted this further and continuing inquiry except his own curiosity, and the
determination to appease it.

 
          
 
Staring into the fire and basking in its glow,
he found himself wondering once again about Jerry and what he might be finding
in the fog. This was far from the first time he'd employed the cabby on such a
mission; by unspoken agreement Jerry brought his hack around to the square
promptly at seven every evening, and on most nights Newcomen was his fare. But
on certain occasions he had undertaken special assignments, almost always
carried to a successful outcome. It was the unspoken rule that the inspector
never inquired as to the means Jerry employed in obtaining information.
Enough to accept the fact that a
London
cabby was far more
knowledgeable than your average constable or detective.

 
          
 
Enough, and yet not enough.
When Newcomen prepared for bed, turning down both his covers and the gas log in
the fireplace, he knew he was in for a night of troubled slumber.