Gaslight cast a ghostly glow over the walls of the medical laboratory, flickering faintly in sinister silence.
And there was something sinister about the silent man who crouched before the clutter of chemical retorts on the tabletop, glancing about furtively to make sure he was not observed. His normally-composed face was haggard now, his trembling hand tensing with an effort at control as he carefully measured off a few drops from a retort and poured the colorless concoction into a beaker. The liquid bubbled and foamed. Raising the fuming vessel to his lips he drained its contents at a single gulp, then stood swaying as the beaker fell from nerveless fingers.
Clutching his throat, face contorted with agony and anguish, he gasped, staggered, and fell behind the table.
For a moment all was still.
Then the silence was broken by the sound of panting as he rose slowly to face the light.
But now his features were changed. The pale aristocratic countenance had disappeared; in its place was the hairy bestial visage of a monster. Glaring wildly, the beast-man turned toward the door at the sound of a knock and a muffled voice crying out.
“Dr. Jekyll — Dr. Jekyll — are you there?”
Spontaneous applause resounded, drowning out Richard Mansfield’s reply. The Royal Lyceum Theatre audience was completely captivated by his performance in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
Or almost completely.
Trebor, seated in the stalls beside Mark, observed the ovation without emotion. And when the curtain fell for the interval, he led Mark through the jostling, murmuring mob thronging the foyer, and ordered two whiskies at the bar.
As the drinks arrived the younger man’s hand moved toward his breast pocket but Trebor restrained him. “My treat,” he said. “You paid for the tickets.”
Mark lifted his glass. “I’m glad you came,” he said. “Seeing as how it was a last-minute invitation.”
Trebor nodded. “Stood you up, eh?”
“What do you mean?”
“The young lady.” He smiled. “Obviously, since you booked seats in advance, you must have counted on more pleasant companionship.” Trebor caught himself quickly. “None of my business, really. Her loss is my gain.”
Mark downed his drink, making no reply. Still Trebor couldn’t help wondering. The lady in question — who might she be?
But now it was Mark’s question he must answer; the sound of his voice registered over Trebor’s thought. “Well, what do you think of it?”
“The play?” Trebor set his glass on the bar as he resolved his reply. “Mansfield is a consummate actor, no doubt about that. But the premise is utterly absurd.”
“Do you really think so?” Mark’s eyes were thoughtful. “Of course the device is childish. I realize there’s no chemical agency which could bring about such a drastic, instantaneous transformation. But we both know that seemingly normal personalities are capable of a sudden change.”
“Granted.” Trebor shrugged. “In this instance I must admit that bad science can also make for good melodrama.”
He turned to return a nod of greeting from a tall man striding past, monocle glinting from one scowling eye. His close-cropped hair, down-pointed mustache and stiff bearing seemed better suited to a uniform than evening clothes.
Mark glanced at him. “Friend of yours?”
“Sir Charles Warren. He’s the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.”
“Sounds important.”
“That he is, and he’d be the first to tell you so. Warren was Major General of the Royal Engineers when they put down the Bantu tribes in Griqualand West, then commanded them again at Suakin. Quite the heroic figure, but not exactly an endearing one. When he took over as commissioner last year he called out the troops to fire on demonstrators in Trafalgar Square. ‘Bloody Sunday,’ they call it.” Trebor shook his head. “I’d be hard put to find many who’d count Sir Charles Warren a friend.”
Now the warning buzzer sounded and they returned to their seats. As the curtain rose again Trebor noted Mark’s total absorption in the drama. Strange that he should be so completely captivated by such claptrap. The play was quite obviously the product of a morbid imagination — and morbid anatomy. Trebor recalled that the author of the story. Robert Louis Stevenson, was known to suffer from phthisis, and no doubt the disease exerted an influence over his mind as well as his body. But the work had power, and at its conclusion the audience clamored its approval. Curtain calls were still continuing when Trebor and Mark made their way through the lobby, glancing appreciatively at the new display of electrical lighting.
Its dazzle formed quite a contrast to the fog they found in the street. Here in the gathering gloom artificial light gave way to a darker reality.
As they strolled. Mark murmured softly, almost to himself. “It could be true, you know.”
“The play?”
“Just the idea behind it. An ordinary man turning into a monster.”
“Medically impossible,” Trebor said. “There are no such chemicals.”
“I’m not thinking about a physical change. But suppose there’s something inside the brain itself that can sometimes be summoned to take control. Perhaps we all have a monster hidden inside us.”
“Nothing’s hidden inside me that I know of except the need for a stiff drink.” Trebor shivered in the chill of the damp street. “What say we stop for a nightcap?”
Mark shook his head. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just go on to my lodgings.”
“Suit yourself. Personally, I’ve no taste for this weather.”
“I rather like it,” Mark said.
“You’d be better off to hail a cab—”
Trebor’s voice trailed off as he realized the young man wasn’t listening. With a gesture of farewell, Mark turned the corner and the fog swallowed him.
For a moment Trebor considered following, but then a stronger impulse inclined him in the direction of the public house directly across the street. Its brightly lit windows blazed a promise of warm delights within.
Strange that the notion had taken him so suddenly. How many times had he told himself that a man his age must put aside the pleasures of the flesh? But the urge was always there, buried somewhere inside him, and now he felt it emerging like the monster Mansfield played. Suppose that another drama was about to unfold—Dr. Trebor and Mr. Hyde?
Hurrying toward the entrance of the public house he shrugged the thought away.
There was nothing monstrous about wanting a woman…
~ NINE ~
Egypt, A.D. 1010. Caliph Hakim was a madman who killed passing slaves in the street and ripped out their entrails with his bare hands. In his palace garden was a pool on which floated a piece of wood. As a joke he dared visitors to jump on it, a challenge which could not be politely refused. When the unsuspecting guest leaped into the water, the floating wood was knocked aside and the poor wretch was skewered on an upthrust spear which had been hidden beneath. Later Hakim proclaimed himself the Messiah.
Early morning sunshine faded behind him as Detective Inspector Frederick Abberline passed through the doorway of Number Four, Whitehall Place and moved into the darker domain of Scotland Yard. Portly, plump and proper, he plodded down the hall, acknowledging the greetings of passersby in the busy corridors.
But his smile of salutation concealed concern. Did anyone suspect? His mission here today called for all the poise he could muster, and nothing upset dignity more than the rumble of an upset stomach.
Entering the reception room at the end of the hall, Abberline breathed a silent prayer that his queasiness would quiet. James Monro, assistant commissioner and head of the C.I.D., regarded any infirmity in an underling as insubordination; every member of the force was expected to be physically and mentally fit at all times. Still, he had respect for his people, which was more than could be said for a bully like Warren.