The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: Dr Jekyll & Mr Holmes (19 page)

‘It was a minor indiscretion, Mr. Holmes, and has more than been made up for by the brilliant advances which this man has engineered in the cause of science, I hardly think that it can do him serious harm at this late date.’

‘On the contrary, Professor,’ said Holmes, ‘in retrospect, given the repressed climate of the times in which we live, such a tale could bring ruin to a man of Jekyll’s stature. You have been a very great help indeed. Would I be pressing fortune if I asked the name of the young lady who escorted Jekyll on that memorable morning?’

The professor smiled for the first time, in a manner which he no doubt assumed was rakish. ‘It has been thirty years, but I am not so senile that I would forget a name like Fanny Flanagan, or the address of her still-flourishing establishment at Number 333 MacTavish Place.’

‘Thank you, Professor Armbruster.’ Holmes rose and shook him by the hand. I extended mine as well, but instead of accepting it he glared at me with malice in his eyes.

‘I would advise you to steer clear of people’s overcoats in the future,’ said he. He turned his attention back to Holmes, who had grasped the doorknob. ‘Mind that door; it sticks.’

‘So I observed.’

We were on our way down when Holmes stopped upon the staircase landing.

‘Watson,’ said he, ‘would you pardon me whilst I speak with the professor a moment longer? I have forgotten something. There’s a good fellow.’ He turned and walked briskly back down the corridor.

I sat down on the top step and lit a cigar. It was two-thirds gone by the time Holmes returned, wearing an expression which I can only describe as smug. All the way downstairs and across the University grounds he did not say a word. Near the medical library he hailed a hansom, and, as we climbed aboard:

‘Number 333 MacTavish Place, driver, and take your time. Those ladies need their sleep.’

N
O
. 333 M
ACTAVISH
P
LACE

O
ur driver, who appeared to be familiar with the area, lost no time in conveying us to a seamy neighbourhood buried amidst the maze of ancient and modern structures which typified Scotland’s capital city. Here, where grey buildings rolled past in drab succession, each of which appeared to be more tightly shut against the invasion of daylight than the one before, there was little doubt as to what went on beyond their locked doors when the sun was down and the gas lamps were burning. From behind some of them, lines strung with freshly-laundered unmentionables fluttered ostentatiously into view from time to time in the stiff breeze, brazen advertisements of the pleasures awaiting within. We stopped finally before a towering Gothic structure which had once been a fine private dwelling but which had long since deteriorated into a hovel to match its neighbours; over its arched doorway the number 333 was cut into weathered stone.

‘A trifle early, ain’t you, men?’ asked the hefty Scot in the driver’s seat, leering, as Holmes paid him. ‘They don’t open their doors here till after eight.’

‘Since you appear to know so much about it, perhaps you would be kind enough to introduce us to the tenants,’ responded the detective blandly.

The driver growled a reply which was unintelligible, gave his reins a flip, and lurched off down the street.

The appearance of a cab in that neighbourhood at that hour was apparently unusual enough to warrant inspection, as here and there I spotted blinds being pulled aside in windows on both sides of the street. I tugged my hat down low over my eyes and turned up my coat collar as we headed up the walk towards the front door of No. 333. Holmes chuckled softly.

‘You needn’t worry about being recognised this far from home, Watson,’ said he. ‘Even if you were, the observers might find it difficult to explain what business they themselves had in this quarter. Besides, you are drawing more attention to yourself by acting furtive.’ He rapped upon the door with the brass knocker which hung in its centre.

There was a long wait, after which we heard footsteps approaching and the door opened a crack to reveal a handsome brown eye and little else. It looked each of us up and down in turn before a husky feminine voice informed us that the establishment was closed.

Holmes removed his hat and introduced us both — to my distress. ‘We wish to speak with Miss Fanny Flanagan,’ he continued. ‘Is the lady still in residence?’

A lengthy silence ensued, during which suspicion glittered in the single exposed eye. Then: ‘There is no-one here by that name.’ The door began to close.

‘It has to do with Henry Jekyll, Miss Flanagan,’ said Holmes hastily.

The door stopped. A new glint came into the eye, one of curiosity.

‘How did you know?’ asked the voice.

‘Dialects are a specialty of mine, Miss Flanagan. Thirty years in Scotland have failed to completely eradicate your stubborn Irish brogue.’

‘You are from the police?’

‘No, Dr. Watson and I are acting on behalf of a client.’

‘Henry Jekyll?’

‘It is rather involved. May we come inside?’

There was another long pause. Finally the door was opened fully and we stepped across the threshold. I took off my hat and stared in wonder at our surroundings.

The homeliness of the building’s exterior had not prepared me for the splendour within. The floor was concealed beneath a luxurious carpet which was deep enough to tickle my ankles, whilst the walls were half-panelled in very old oak and decorated with fine oils in intricate gilt frames; these details, however, served only to heighten the effect created by the costly wing-backed armchairs of stuffed leather and velvet and the darkly-gleaming curve-legged tables and glass-fronted cabinets stocked with china and delicate
objets d’art
with which the room was furnished. Towards the rear, a graceful old staircase carpeted in deep purple and glittering gold swept upwards to the first floor in the company of colourful tapestries, dark with age, which lined the wall along its far side. It was a home fit, if not for a king, then at least for a prime minister.

But it was our hostess who completed this picture of grace and luxury. Far from the sin-wasted slattern I had expected, Fanny Flanagan was a statuesque woman attired in a flowing dressing-gown of a deep blue material which shimmered as she closed the door and turned to face us, offering us as she did so just a glimpse of a tiny foot shod in pale blue satin beneath the hem. Although my knowledge of her past placed her at middle age, there was nothing either in the fine line of her neck or the smoothly-moulded surface of her oval face to suggest matronliness; indeed, were it not for a single wisp of silver glistening amidst the waves in her auburn hair — which tumbled unfettered about her shoulders — I should not have guessed her to be beyond five-and-thirty. Aside from that, the years had left their mark only in a set of most appealing laughter-lines which crinkled at the corners of her eyes when she favoured us with her hostess’s smile. If like others in her profession she was in the habit of painting her face, such was not evident.

After she had relieved us of our hats and coats and hung them beside the door, she waved us into two of the handsome armchairs with a graceful gesture of her slender right hand. ‘Shall I pour you each a glass of brandy?’ She stepped towards a table upon which stood an ornate decanter and some glasses.

‘Thank you, it is a bit early in the day for us,’ said Holmes. I concurred.

She laughed, a merry tinkling sound far back in her throat. ‘Of course. I’m sorry. It is force of habit.’ She glanced upwards. ‘Back to bed, girls; everything is under control.’

I had been uncomfortably aware for some time of a bevy of beautiful young women, who, clad only in flimsy nightdresses, were watching us from the staircase landing. One, a diminutive blonde, appeared to be showing more than passing interest in me. At their mistress’s benevolent but firm command, they giggled and fled down the first-floor passageway, naked feet padding on bare wood. Within moments, however, most of them had crept back — notably the blonde, who was now most assuredly studying me from behind the bannister. I squirmed in my seat and wished that I had not been so quick to decline Miss Flanagan’s offer of brandy.

‘You have a lovely home,’ commented Holmes.

‘Thank you. It would be a good deal less lavish but for the University. Many of the students find my girls a welcome change from lectures and studying. But you have not come to discuss my
décor
.’ She lowered herself gracefully into a straight-backed chair with a bright window behind it — a common practice, I had learnt, amongst women who were unsure of their appearance. In her case the maneuver was unnecessary.

Holmes sketched for her benefit a brief outline of the events which had led us to her parlour, beginning with the Carew murder and finishing with the tale which Professor Armbruster had recounted. At this point she smiled.

‘Old ‘Brucie,’ she mused. ‘The students speak of him often.’

‘With good reason,’ said Holmes. ‘Although he is rather less than lucid in some areas — assuming, that is, that Watson did not, as he maintains, run the old gentleman’s overcoat up the flagpole in ‘73’ — here he glanced slyly in my direction — ‘he experienced no difficulty whatsoever in recalling the incident which cost Jekyll a year of penance when we asked him for any aberration in his former student’s past.’

‘And you believe that this tale is the source of Henry’s present difficulties?’

‘I neither believe nor disregard anything until all of the facts are in. However, it is a fundamental tenet of botany that a sudden alteration in the growth of a tree may find its origin in its early development.’

‘But it was such a little thing. I hardly remember it myself.’

‘An incident which no-one remembers is an incident which is easily distorted. Put your memory to work. What happened that night?’

She shrugged, a delightful little movement involving only one shoulder. ‘Come now, Mr. Holmes; you appear to me to be a man of the world. What do you imagine happened?’

‘What I imagine, madam, is entirely beside the point. I should like to hear the details in your own words.’ His grey eyes flashed fire.

The retort, swift as a rapier thrust, caught our hostess off her guard. She fidgeted beneath Holmes’s glare, dropped her eyes; then, defiantly, she met his gaze head-on. Her strength of will was remarkable to behold. ‘Nothing happened that night, Mr. Holmes.’ Her tone was firm.

‘Nothing?’ It was the detective’s turn to be taken aback.

‘Nothing.’ She made a tiny gesture of dismissal. ‘The boy was drunk. I was working the public-house that night — in those days we were expected to go out and fetch our customers instead of waiting for them to seek us out; Mrs. McGregor was in charge then, the old harridan — anyway, I caught his eye whilst he was drinking with his friends and he lurched over to where I was standing. You should have seen me in those days, Mr. Holmes. I was just sixteen, and a bonny little thing. He wasn’t so drunk he missed that. He made a proposition and I accepted it.
Clarice!’

The tiny blonde had sneaked downstairs without her mistress’s knowledge and stretched out a hand from behind my chair to touch my arm. At Miss Flanagan’s cry she drew back in fear and remorse and shot back up the stairs like a bullet. A moment later I heard a door slam on the floor above.

‘I apologise for Clarice’s bad manners, Doctor,’ said our hostess, smiling in a strained fashion. ‘She is young enough to imagine that she may fall in love in this profession and yet not be hurt. She has much to learn.’

Somehow I received the impression that it was not Clarice at whom her anger was directed, but at me, or rather at the gender to which I belonged. I responded that no apologies were necessary.

‘Pray continue, Miss Flanagan,’ said Holmes impatiently.

‘Where was I?’

‘Jekyll made a proposition and you accepted.’

‘Yes, of course. You must understand that he was not new to the public-house and that stories concerning his family’s wealth were widespread. Moreover, he was very handsome and his manners were impeccable, even in his unsteady condition. These three qualities made the prospect of landing him a matter of some competition; that he chose me from amongst all the girls present flattered me beyond words. As was customary, I obtained the money in advance — it was five bob in those days — and he accompanied me across the street to this house.’

She stopped.

‘And then?’ pressed the detective.

Again she shrugged. ‘Nothing. When he got to my room he fell asleep.’

A silence descended whilst Holmes and I pondered this incredible revelation. At this point the comical side of what had started out as a sordid tale of scandal asserted itself, and we both roared with laughter.

‘It strikes you funny now, but I can assure you that it was no laughing matter at the time,’ said she with some heat. ‘I was young, inexperienced, and deathly afraid of Mrs. McGregor. Rather than tell her what had happened and become the target of her ridicule, I stayed up all night in a chair because there was no room beside that snoring young popinjay on my bed, sprawled as he was across it. The next morning, when everyone was asleep, I succeeded in rousing him — he was still quite unsteady — and helped him downstairs and into a cab. I thought that would be the end of it, but the driver, a nasty sort, said that he would not exert himself getting the young man back to his rooms and refused to take him unless I went along to perform that function. I had no choice but to act as his escort. It cost me four bob for a cab fare there and back.’ She shook her head. ‘No, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, I reiterate that I felt no desire to laugh.’