Chapter 4
Eleven months later, winters had just started, London was polluted with hideous crimes, and specifically taking in account the high stator of the victim.A housemaid went to her room as clock hit eleven. Although a fog rolled over the city in the small hours, the early part of the night was cloudless, and the lane, which the maid’s window overlooked, was brilliantly lit by the full moon. It seems she was romantically given, for she sat down upon her box, which stood immediately under the window, and fell into a dream of musing. Never (she used to say, with streaming tears, when she narrated that experience), never had she felt more at peace with all men or thought more kindly of the world. And as she so sat she became aware of an aged beautiful gentleman with white hair, drawing near along the lane; and advancing to meet him, another and very small gentleman, to whom at first she paid less attention. The former one spoke to the other in a very polite manner. The girl was quite taken by his ways. The moon shone on his face as he spoke, and the girl was pleased to watch it; it seemed to breathe such an innocent and old-world kindness of disposition, yet with something high too, as of a well-founded self-content. Later, she turned to other gentleman and she could reckon who he was. It was the same Mr. Hyde whome she disliked from the day he visited her master some time ago. He was quiet before the older man, just listening to him and trifling his heavy cane out of sheer impatience. Suddenly, he was possessed by anger when he hit the older man with the heavy cane. He forced him to the ground and crushed him under his feet. He hit him endlessly like a madman out of fury; the maid fell on ground out of shock.
She opened her eyes when the clock striked two. She immediately called for the police as she woke up. The body of the victim still lay in the lane but there was no sign of the person responsible. The murder weapon had been broken into two halves one out of which lied in the neigbhouring sewer while the other was taken by the murderer. When the victim was searched, a purse and gold watch were found upon the victim: but no cards or papers, except a sealed and stamped envelope, which he had been probably carrying to the post, and which bore the name and address of Mr. Utterson.
On receiving the letter next day, Mr. Utterson read its contents but refused to say anything before seeing the body by his own eyes. He rushed to the police station to witness the body himself.
“Unfortunately I recognize, this is Sir Danvers Carew,” he said.
“How is that possible, sir!” the officer exclaimed. “This will make a deal of noise.Probably; you could lead us to the man.” He told everything that the maid had witnessed.
When Mr. Utterson saw the broken stick, he recognized it as a present gifted by himself to Dr. Jekyll.
“What do you know about this Mr. Hyde?” he asked the officer.
“The maid reckoned him as a short and cruel-faced,” said the officer.
“I presume I can lead you to the place where he lives,” Mr. Utterson responded.
It was by this time about nine in the morning, and the first fog of the season. A great chocolate-coloured pall lowered over heaven, but the wind was continually charging and routing these embattled vapours; so that as the cab crawled from street to street, Mr. Utterson beheld a marvellous number of degrees and hues of twilight; for here it would be dark like the back-end of evening; and there would be a glow of a rich, lurid brown, like the light of some strange conflagration; and here, for a moment, the fog would be quite broken up, and a haggard shaft of daylight would glance in between the swirling wreaths. The dismal quarter of Soho seen under these changing glimpses, with its muddy ways, and slatternly passengers, and its lamps, which had never been extinguished or had been kindled afresh to combat this mournful reinvasion of darkness, seemed, in the lawyer’s eyes, like a district of some city in a nightmare. The thoughts of his mind, besides, were of the gloomiest dye; and when he glanced at the companion of his drive, he was conscious of some touch of that terror of the law and the law’s officers, which may at times assail the most honest.
As the cab drew up before the address indicated, the fog lifted a little and showed him a dingy street, a gin palace, a low French eating house, a shop for the retail of penny numbers and twopenny salads, many ragged children huddled in the doorways, and many women of many different nationalities passing out, key in hand, to have a morning glass; and the next moment the fog settled down again upon that part, as brown as umber, and cut him off from his blackguardly surroundings. This was the home of Henry Jekyll’s favourite; of a man who was heir to a quarter of a million sterling.
A short old lady opened the door and told them he was not at home. She had an evil face, smoothed by hypocrisy: but her manners were excellent. “Yes,” she said, “but he had come for less than hour late at night and left again in no time.” She told them this was usual on his part and his prolonged absence was consistent from past two months.
“This is Inspector New from Scotland Yard, we wish to see Mr. Hyde’s rooms,” said Mr. Utterson politely.
“Is he alright?” inquired the lady.”
“I reckon him to be infamous all around the neibhourhood. I would now be pleased to observe his place lady,” said the officer.
In the whole extent of the house, which but for the old woman remained otherwise empty, Mr. Hyde had only used a couple of rooms; but these were furnished with luxury and good taste. A closet was filled with wine; the plate was of silver, the napery elegant; a good picture hung upon the walls, a gift (as Utterson supposed) from Henry Jekyll, who was much of a connoisseur; and the carpets were of many plies and agreeable in colour. The room seemed as if it had been searched for something. The drawers and the closets were open and the clothes lay on the floors everywhere. One of them recovred the remains of the green cheque book along the other half of the stick hidden behind the door. He was elated to know that his suspicions were true. Later they revised thousand pounds of transaction in their visit to the bank.
“It was stupid of him to have left the burned cheque book and stick at his place. I have him in my hand, sir. We will wait for him to turn up in the bank,” the officer told him.
It was easier said than done as Mr. Hyde was a rare site. There was no record of his family or his visible identity.
His only mark of identity was the deformity on his face which made him different from others.
