The Strange Case of Eliza Doolittle Page 21

  “I did not open that window.”

  Then we heard a sound: a crash of furniture, and the thud of something heavy falling full-length upon the floor.

  “The laboratory!” hissed Holmes. “He was here before us! You have your service revolver?”

  I patted my coat pocket. “What about you?”

  He brandished his stick.

  “Why don’t you ever carry a gun, blast you?” I asked as we roared down the stairs.

  “One such weapon is enough to provide discouragement. Two is an invitation to bloodshed.”

  When we reached the laboratory we discovered Dr. Guest, stretched out full upon the floor near the piano, unconscious. The piano bench was open, sheet music strewn across the floor. Upon the piano itself was a small case holding a hypodermic syringe and six ampoules of the clear solution. One of the ampoules was empty.

  “He must have been here all along, hiding, waiting for everyone to leave.”

  “Addicted to his own poison!” I exclaimed, holding the ampoule up for Holmes to see.

  “No. Hyde was here. Master and man seem to have had a falling out, and the doctor got the worst of it.” He pointed. “His footprints there, and there.”

  “And there,” I pointed, “his boots!”

  Holmes looked where I pointed, beneath the settee. There was indeed a pair of boots there, small, but wide enough for Hyde’s splayed feet.

  “This is curious indeed,” he said, “for observe the doctor’s feet.” I looked. The doctor had no shoes on. “Hyde must have taken them,” I said.

  “And left his own?” The queerest look of puzzlement came into Holmes’s face.

  “Let’s get him up on the settee,” I said. Holmes seemed not to hear me. He stood staring at Hyde’s boots as if he expected the man himself to spring up out of them. I saw to the doctor myself. Guest let out a groan as I lifted him. He was conscious, then, or drifting in and out.

  “The boots, Watson, the boots! At last I begin to see the light! The boot-prints!”

  “What the devil are you talking about, Holmes?”

  “Hosmer Angel.”

  The case came back to me in a flash. Hosmer Angel had been affianced to Miss Mary Sutherland. He was entirely devoted to her, and would have made a most loving husband, except for the fact that he had never existed. Hosmer Angel had been invented and personated by James Windibank, Miss Sutherland’s stepfather, for the sole purpose of keeping her unwed and at home so that he would continue to have the use of her independent income. It was a hoax most daring and most cruel. And it was clear what Holmes meant by uttering that name.

  “Edward Hyde . . . is Hosmer Angel?” The enormity of the idea nearly unhinged me. “But Holmes! I saw him myself!”

  “You saw what Guest wanted you to see, or more like what he wanted Freddy to see. A rival so fearsome it would send Eliza’s gentle lapdog trembling under the furniture. A monster fashioned from greasepaint and spirit gum meant to terrorize the matinee crowd.”

  “Then we were hunting a phantom?”

  “While the real monster hid behind the drapes on Montague Street.”

  Guest sat rocking back and forth on the settee with his head in his hands, muttering to himself.

  “Dr. Guest! Can you hear me?” asked Holmes. Guest lifted a finger to acknowledge.

  “Your stay in Switzerland seems to have been less than salubrious,” Holmes continued. “I see your associate has been here as well. Yet he has departed in his stocking feet.”

  “Who?” Guest asked groggily.

  “Let us have no more deceptions, Dr. Guest.”

  “Hyde came. He attacked me.”

  “You seem to have fought him off.”

  “I’m ill. I must return home at once.” Guest attempted to rise, but had not the strength.

  “Doctor, if you would?”

  I examined the man. “He has a high fever, that’s certain. And his pulse races.”

  “Who are you?” asked Guest, still in a daze. “Not who you said.”

  “I am Sherlock Holmes. And you are the man who murdered Frederick Eynsford-Hill.”

  “No. No. Not I. It was Hyde . . . he’s coming back. He might return any moment.”

  “Scotland Yard is not idle. There are men concealed all over the neighborhood. I need only open the window and whistle and you shall be in their hands. But first there are a few points I wish you would enlighten me upon.”

  Guest’s face was suffused with fear. Sweat poured off his forehead. “Hyde is coming back,” he croaked. “You must go. You must flee.” He made a feeble attempt to rise, but fell back upon the settee.

  “Watson, I think a spot of brandy would do the man good.”

  I went to the sideboard and poured a glass. I brought it to him and put it carefully to his lips. He knocked the glass from my hand.

  “Hyde is here! Run!” he roared.

  What occurred in the next few moments was the most nightmarish thing I have witnessed in all my years with Sherlock Holmes. I near fainted with fear. Nor was Sherlock Holmes any less affected. His face was white as the winter moon. All his theories were as ash on his tongue.

  Guest was bent double on the settee. His face was purple. His eyes bulged almost out of his head and his mouth twisted. His whole body shook with agonizing paroxysms. He fell to his hands and knees on the floor. His body writhed, seeming to shrink and grow at the same time, as if his flesh were melting wax. The veins stood out like black snakes beneath the skin. His hands became gnarled like old vines. His skin shrank and coarsened till it looked like old parchment stretched across the skull. When he looked up at us, his eyes were no longer those of Gabriel Guest. They were the mad yellow eyes of Edward Hyde. Once again there hung over him like a cloak that foulness that suggested something beyond the grave.

  “My God,” whispered Sherlock Holmes, “what hast Thou wrought?”

  “He warned you, didn’t he?” rasped Hyde, baring his teeth in a simian grin. “The doctor warned you, but you wouldn’t listen!” His laugh was like the shredding of rotted canvas. “Now you must take your medicine!”

  He was on his feet quick as a flame. I was nearest him. I tried to retreat, but he clamped a hand on my forearm and sent me windmilling across the room. I tumbled over the settee into the fireplace, landing on my side in the fender. The pain shot up my arm like a thunderbolt.

  Holmes’s stick whipped across Hyde’s shoulders. The creature howled in pain. He spun round and lunged for the stick, but Holmes sidestepped like a toreador and dealt a blow that opened up a welt below the left eye. Hyde turned and charged again. There was Holmes, whirling, kicking, slashing with the cane, driving in to land sting after sting. For a man his age, Holmes was still swift and unexpectedly strong. His old skills at single stick had not deserted him.

  But they were only stings. Hyde seemed to take no real harm from the blows. He was younger than Holmes, his strength fueled by a monumental rage. He landed a wayward blow against the side of Holmes’s face. It was only a slap, but it sent Holmes staggering. He dodged the next hammer blow only through sheer instinct. Recovering his stance, he laid on with the stick again, pushing back in upon Hyde, but more cautiously, step by miserly step. All I could think of was the image of Hyde bringing a horse to its knees with one blow.

  Then I remembered the gun in my pocket. I had to reach it, but my right shoulder, where I had landed, was numb once more. I grappled across my body with my good arm.

  Holmes looked to have cornered Hyde, laying on at will, opening up fresh wounds upon his face and hands. Hyde seemed bewildered. Then with a snarl he leapt straight up onto the bookshelves and hung there like a giant spider, dripping with malice. Then he plunged toward Holmes. Holmes sprang away, but Hyde landed on his feet behind him. Pivoting, he drove an elbow into the detective’s kidney. Holmes gasped and hit the wall, nearly cracking his skull against the doorjamb. Before he could gather himself, Hyde planted a kick in the back of his knee. Holmes fell to the floor in a thunderclap o
f agony. Hyde’s foot came down and would have cracked Holmes’s spine had he not squirmed away. The foot came down again, but Holmes caught it and threw him back. Hyde crashed into the piano bench, smashing it into toothpicks beneath him.

  Holmes swayed to his feet, sobbing for breath, his strength nearly drained. Hyde sat up, grunted, and spat blood, little the worse for a good sparring. Any fool could see the final outcome of this mismatched battle. But for the briefest moment, Hyde’s attention flickered. I saw it. Holmes saw it, too, his one chance at leverage. Even as Hyde scrambled toward the piano, Holmes swept forward with his stick. It came down, not on Hyde but on the hypodermic case, smashing one of the ampoules. Hyde howled in anguish and grabbed for the case, ignoring the blows Holmes rained upon him. He snatched up the case, shut it, and stuffed it inside his coat.

  “Little good will it do you,” Holmes said softly. Hyde cast a look upon him full of despair. “How long did the first dose last? Five minutes? Your body has become resistant to the antidote.”

  Hyde sank to his knees, one hand over his heart where the case was secreted. “This is my only salvation,” he whispered.

  “Then you are utterly damned,” replied Holmes. He set the point of his stick at Hyde’s throat.

  For a moment one could almost glimpse the eyes of Gabriel Guest looking out from behind the mask of Hyde. But Guest was lost forever. Hyde growled and grabbed the end of the stick. The two men wrestled for control. Holmes held on like a bulldog, but Hyde, mounting slowly to his feet, had mastery, marching Holmes backward until he was pinned against the wall. Demosthenes tumbled from his shelf and shattered on the floor. I fumbled for the gun again. Holmes’s stick snapped like a twig. Hyde flung the pieces away and slammed a fist full into Holmes’s face. Holmes rocked and dropped to his knees, stunned. I could feel the gun wadded in the folds of my coat. My fingers sought the trigger. Hyde seized the phonograph from the table and brought it down on the detective’s shoulders, knocking him flat on the floor. He followed with a savage kick to the ribs that nearly lifted Holmes from the floor. Another such kick might kill him. I couldn’t tear the gun free.

  I fired.

  Hyde spun, staring in amazement. Had I hit him? Left-handed, through my coat pocket, my hand shaking like the palsy, had I hit him? Holmes groaned. Hyde took a step forward. A wetness spread through his waistcoat. He reached in and drew forth the hypodermic case. He whimpered, opening the case. Shards of glass tinkled onto the floor, and the spent bullet. Hyde wailed like an animal mortally wounded. He dropped the case. It had saved his life and lost it both.

  In that moment I pitied him, I did. But I feared him still. He moved. I fired again. But he was no longer there. There was a crash and spray of glass. Hyde was gone through the window, into the street below.

  “Watson,” Holmes voice croaked. He was propped against the wall, staring at me. His face was a mass of bruises. “You are a man of miracles.”

  In a sudden burst of relief, I laughed, almost crying. Holmes joined me in laughter. He hauled himself to his feet, hobbled to my side, and helped me stand. “Good old Watson. Are you all right?”

  I nodded. “You?”

  “I wouldn’t like to go another round on the canvas with that devil.”

  We heard a police whistle outside. And another.

  “Those gunshots should bring half the force at the run,” said Holmes. “Let us join them.”

  Chapter Thirty

  We limped out into the street. Hyde was nowhere in sight, but the rumor of his passage was everywhere. There were police constables running, children chasing behind them, and fat nursemaids wheeling crying babies in their prams, all in the same direction. There were barrows and carts lying in the middle of the road, their contents spilled from one curb to the other, their owners hurling curses to heaven. Carriage drivers were shouting at each other and automobile horns were honking. We moved down the street in Hyde’s wake.

  Further on, we found a four-wheeler overturned in the middle of the street, its driver battered and bruised, surrounded by policemen barking questions. It seemed Hyde had torn the horse out of its traces and ridden off, bareback. A young fellow in a two-seater automobile was trying to get past, honking his horn incessantly, as if he could clear the street with noise.

  “Watson, our quarry is mounted. We must secure transport.” Holmes turned and pointed to the young man in the auto. “That will do nicely.”

  I approached the auto. “Good afternoon, sir,” I said to the young man. He wore a cloth hat and duster, with the requisite goggles over his eyes, which to my mind always gives motorists the appearance of giant toads.

  He greeted me with a vapid look. “Officer, could you please persuade this fellow to move his vehicle with all due speed? If I’m not at my aunt’s country house by six, I’ll be banished from the dinner table.”

  I cocked my revolver and pointed it at him. It spoke volumes.

  “Here, what are you doing? Help—!” The word died on his lips as I poked the gun in his ribs.

  “Move over,” I said. The young man complied with all due speed. I got in the car next to him, pushing him into the passenger seat.

  “Can you drive this machine, Watson?” Holmes asked, leaning over the dash.

  My experience as a driver had been confined to the two-street stretch after we dismissed our driver on the day we had first come to Wimpole Street. Even that would not have deterred me, but—“My shoulder,” I said. There was still no feeling in it.

  “What a nuisance. Push over. I shall drive.” I squeezed up against the young man till he was almost in my lap, as Holmes took the wheel. I was fairly certain I had two streets’ worth of experience over Holmes as a motorist. He gripped the wheel tightly. “Now what?”

  As quickly as possible, I shared my scant knowledge with him regarding gear shifting and foot pedals. The young man in goggles and duster appeared to be trying to contribute, but was only able to utter the words “bup-bup-bup” repeatedly. I had not removed the gun from his vitals.

  “Excellent! I have the gist of it,” said Holmes. The gears ground, the car jumped, and the young man groaned. We were off. Our progress was closer to that of a wounded rabbit than a gazelle of the African plain, but Holmes learned quickly and the grinding of the gears became less horrendous as we bucked down the road.

  It was not hard to guess what route Hyde had taken. Boys were chasing down the street, wild with excitement. Then we saw up ahead a crowd of police constables around a man on a horse. There was no question it was Hyde: the man was not seated astride the horse, but standing on its back like a circus rider, lashing it with a coachman’s whip as it reared in a frenzy. Then the horse broke through the crowd at a gallop. Holmes attempted to follow, but a crowd closed in behind wherever Hyde went. Holmes wove in and out of traffic, spinning the wheel like a helmsman in a storm, but we could gain no ground on our quarry.

  “Can this machine go any faster?” Holmes yelled over the roar of the engine.

  The young man’s vanity gave him voice. “My good man, you’re jolly well behind the wheel of a Widgeon Seven. It can reach speeds up to fifty per!”

  “We have to catch that man on the horse!”

  “That madman? Who are you geezers?” the young man asked.

  “Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson!” I cried.

  “What, like in the play? Ripping! If you’ll let me drive, we can catch this bally villain without killing ourselves in the process.”

  Holmes slammed on the brake. We all spilled over the dash, and then Holmes climbed over me one way and the young man climbed over me the other way, and presently I was crowded against Holmes with the young man at the wheel, zipping in and out of traffic. Down Oxford, through Regent Street and Coventry we pursued our prey, till we came into the Strand. Here we happened upon an amazing sight: two autos had actually collided head on. Steam rose from their crumpled bonnets, and the drivers stood in the middle of the road, threatening each other with hellfire and perdition, near ready t
o come to blows. They blocked the road completely, but our pilot took the ruin in stride, simply hopping the curb up onto the sidewalk. Pedestrians dove out of our path as Holmes slapped the driver on the back, congratulating him. There was no question he was a skilled pilot, but the growing mass of people in the Saturday streets made it ever more difficult to maneuver.

  “We’ll never catch him this way, guv’nors both!” said the young man.

  Holmes nodded grimly. “Turn right at the next street. We’ll take the bridge.”

  “You mean to abandon the chase?” I protested.

  “I mean to waylay our quarry. We shall not lose him.”

  I had my doubts, but forbore to voice them. The young man, on the other hand, seemed ready to place absolute confidence in the name of Sherlock Holmes. We crossed over Waterloo Bridge to the Surrey side and were soon threading our way among the wharves and warehouses, Holmes shouting directions to the driver at every knot in the road. It was an amazing piece of navigation when you remembered that Holmes had barely set foot in London for ten years. Still, with every mile I feared Hyde was further and further away. Holmes must have read my thoughts.

  “Never fear, Watson. He’ll stay close to the river through Fleet Street and Cheapside. We’ll catch him before he makes the Isle of Dogs.”

  “How do you know where he’s headed?”

  For answer, Holmes waved at me the Bradshaw he’d found in Pickering’s room. “Left here, young Phaethon, left!” he cried to our driver.

  We had gone far out of our way, but there was no denying the traffic was thinner on this side of the river and we were making good time. Soon we were shooting out onto Tower Bridge and crossing the Thames once more. The below-bridge steamers seemed to hail us with their horns. We continued up Little Tower Hill to Smithfield, between the Dock House and the Mint. There Holmes directed the driver to slue the car round broadside of the street, cutting off any chance of Hyde escaping to the east. It was an eerily quiet corner, as if some great disturbance had passed and pulled the flotsam of London along with it. Holmes looked anxious. We shaded our eyes to gaze up Tower Hill, hoping we were not too late. To our left rose the shining white tower that had been the city’s first bastion against barbarous invaders. The driver drummed his fingers upon the dash. A long, nervous moment passed.