The Carew Murder Case

Nearly a year later, in the month of October, 18—, London was startled

by a crime of singular ferocity and rendered all the more notable by

the high position of the victim. The details were few and startling. A

maid servant living alone in a house not far from the river, had gone

upstairs to bed about 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. When they had come

within speech (which was just under the maid’s eyes) the older man

bowed and accosted the other with a very pretty manner of politeness.

It did not seem as if the subject of his address were of great

importance; indeed, from his pointing, it sometimes appeared as if he

were only inquiring his way; but 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. Presently her eye wandered

to the other, and she was surprised to recognise in him a certain Mr.

Hyde, who had once visited her master and for whom she had conceived a

dislike. He had in his hand a heavy cane, with which he was trifling;

but he answered never a word, and seemed to listen with an

ill-contained impatience. And then all of a sudden he broke out in a

great flame of anger, stamping with his foot, brandishing the cane, and

carrying on (as the maid described it) like a madman. The old gentleman

took a step back, with the air of one very much surprised and a trifle

hurt; and at that Mr. Hyde broke out of all bounds and clubbed him to

the earth. And next moment, with ape-like fury, he was trampling his

victim under foot and hailing down a storm of blows, under which the

bones were audibly shattered and the body jumped upon the roadway. At

the horror of these sights and sounds, the maid fainted.

It was two o’clock when she came to herself and called for the police.

The murderer was gone long ago; but there lay his victim in the middle

of the lane, incredibly mangled. The stick with which the deed had been

done, although it was of some rare and very tough and heavy wood, had

broken in the middle under the stress of this insensate cruelty; and

one splintered half had rolled in the neighbouring gutter—the other,

without doubt, had been carried away by the murderer. 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.

This was brought to the lawyer the next morning, before he was out of

bed; and he had no sooner seen it and been told the circumstances, than

he shot out a solemn lip. “I shall say nothing till I have seen the

body,” said he; “this may be very serious. Have the kindness to wait

while I dress.” And with the same grave countenance he hurried through

his breakfast and drove to the police station, whither the body had

been carried. As soon as he came into the cell, he nodded.

“Yes,” said he, “I recognise him. I am sorry to say that this is Sir

Danvers Carew.”

“Good God, sir,” exclaimed the officer, “is it possible?” And the next

moment his eye lighted up with professional ambition. “This will make a

deal of noise,” he said. “And perhaps you can help us to the man.” And

he briefly narrated what the maid had seen, and showed the broken

stick.

Mr. Utterson had already quailed at the name of Hyde; but when the

stick was laid before him, he could doubt no longer; broken and

battered as it was, he recognised it for one that he had himself

presented many years before to Henry Jekyll.

“Is this Mr. Hyde a person of small stature?” he inquired.

“Particularly small and particularly wicked-looking, is what the maid

calls him,” said the officer.

Mr. Utterson reflected; and then, raising his head, “If you will come

with me in my cab,” he said, “I think I can take you to his house.”

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

marvelous 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.

An ivory-faced and silvery-haired old woman opened the door. She had an

evil face, smoothed by hypocrisy: but her manners were excellent. Yes,

she said, this was Mr. Hyde’s, but he was not at home; he had been in

that night very late, but he had gone away again in less than an hour;

there was nothing strange in that; his habits were very irregular, and

he was often absent; for instance, it was nearly two months since she

had seen him till yesterday.

“Very well, then, we wish to see his rooms,” said the lawyer; and when

the woman began to declare it was impossible, “I had better tell you

who this person is,” he added. “This is Inspector Newcomen of Scotland

Yard.”

A flash of odious joy appeared upon the woman’s face. “Ah!” said she,

“he is in trouble! What has he done?”

Mr. Utterson and the inspector exchanged glances. “He don’t seem a very

popular character,” observed the latter. “And now, my good woman, just

let me and this gentleman have a look about us.”

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 piles and

agreeable in colour. At this moment, however, the rooms bore every mark

of having been recently and hurriedly ransacked; clothes lay about the

floor, with their pockets inside out; lock-fast drawers stood open; and

on the hearth there lay a pile of grey ashes, as though many papers had

been burned. From these embers the inspector disinterred the butt end

of a green cheque book, which had resisted the action of the fire; the

other half of the stick was found behind the door; and as this clinched

his suspicions, the officer declared himself delighted. A visit to the

bank, where several thousand pounds were found to be lying to the

murderer’s credit, completed his gratification.

“You may depend upon it, sir,” he told Mr. Utterson: “I have him in my

hand. He must have lost his head, or he never would have left the stick

or, above all, burned the cheque book. Why, money’s life to the man. We

have nothing to do but wait for him at the bank, and get out the

handbills.”

This last, however, was not so easy of accomplishment; for Mr. Hyde had

numbered few familiars—even the master of the servant maid had only

seen him twice; his family could nowhere be traced; he had never been

photographed; and the few who could describe him differed widely, as

common observers will. Only on one point were they agreed; and that was

the haunting sense of unexpressed deformity with which the fugitive

impressed his beholders.