THE CAREW MURDER CASE

von Robert Louis Stevenson · 2026-04-08

Nearly a year later, in October of 18—, London was shaken by a brutal crime that gained even more attention due to the high status of the victim. The details were few but shocking. A maid who lived alone in a house near the river had gone upstairs to bed around eleven. Although a thick fog rolled in later, the early part of the night was clear, and the lane outside her window was brightly illuminated by the full moon.

The maid was a romantic at heart. She settled onto her trunk, which was positioned just beneath the window, and lost herself in thought. She often recounted that, in that moment, she had never felt more at peace with the world or more kindly disposed toward humanity. As she sat there, she noticed an elderly gentleman with white hair approaching down the lane. Accompanying him was a much smaller man, who initially caught her less attention.

When they came closer, just within her view, the older man bowed and greeted the smaller one with a charming politeness. The conversation didn’t seem to carry much weight; at times, it appeared he was merely asking for directions. The moonlight illuminated his face as he spoke, and the maid found joy in watching him, sensing an innocent kindness in his demeanor, mixed with a quiet self-assurance.

Her gaze shifted to the smaller man, and she was startled to recognize Mr. Hyde, someone who had once visited her employer and whom she had taken an immediate dislike to. He was toying with a heavy cane, but he didn’t respond to the older man and seemed to be listening with barely contained irritation. Suddenly, he erupted in a fit of rage, stomping his foot and swinging the cane wildly, behaving like a madman. The older gentleman stepped back, clearly taken aback and slightly hurt by the outburst. In an instant, Hyde lost all restraint and struck him down.

In the next moment, with a fury that resembled that of an animal, he began to stomp on the fallen man, raining down blows that echoed with the sound of breaking bones as the body thudded against the pavement. Overcome by horror at the scene unfolding before her, the maid fainted.

When she regained consciousness around two o'clock, she called for the police. By then, the murderer had long since fled, leaving his victim grotesquely mangled in the middle of the lane. The cane, made of a rare and sturdy wood, had snapped in half during the brutal attack; one splintered piece lay in the nearby gutter, while the other had undoubtedly been taken by Hyde. A purse and a gold watch were found on the victim, but no identification except for a sealed envelope, likely meant for the post, which bore the name and address of Mr. Utterson.

The next morning, the envelope was delivered to the lawyer before he had even gotten out of bed. As soon as he saw it and learned the circumstances, his expression turned grave. “I won’t say anything until I’ve seen the body,” he said. “This could be very serious. Please wait while I get dressed.” With the same serious demeanor, he hurried through his breakfast and drove to the police station where the body had been taken.

Upon entering the cell, he nodded.

“Yes,” he said, “I recognize him. I’m sorry to say this is Sir Danvers Carew.”

“Good God, sir,” the officer exclaimed, “is that possible?” His eyes lit up with professional ambition. “This will create quite a stir. Perhaps you can help us identify the man.” He quickly recounted what the maid had witnessed and showed Mr. Utterson the broken cane.

Mr. Utterson had already felt a chill at the mention of Hyde, but when he saw the cane, his doubts vanished. Despite its battered state, he recognized it as one he had given to Henry Jekyll many years ago.

“Is Mr. Hyde a small man?” he asked.

“Particularly small and particularly wicked-looking, according to the maid,” the officer replied.

Mr. Utterson pondered for a moment, then raised his head. “If you’ll come with me in my cab,” he said, “I think I can take you to his house.”

It was around nine in the morning, and the first fog of the season had rolled in. A thick, chocolate-colored haze hung low in the sky, but the wind was constantly pushing and pulling at the swirling clouds. As the cab moved slowly from street to street, Mr. Utterson observed a stunning array of twilight shades; some areas were as dark as late evening, while others glowed with a strange, fiery brown, reminiscent of some bizarre fire. At times, the fog would part just enough to let a thin shaft of daylight break through the swirling mist.

The dreary neighborhood of Soho, seen through these shifting glimpses, with its muddy streets, disheveled passersby, and lamps that had either never been extinguished or had been lit anew to fight off the encroaching darkness, appeared to Mr. Utterson like a scene from a nightmare. His thoughts were heavy with gloom, and when he glanced at his companion in the cab, he felt a flicker of the fear that the law and its enforcers can instill, even in the most honest of men.

As the cab pulled up to the address, the fog lifted slightly, revealing a shabby street with a gin palace, a low-end French restaurant, a shop selling cheap magazines and salads, and ragged children huddled in doorways. Women of various nationalities stepped out, keys in hand, to grab a morning drink. Just as quickly, the fog settled back down, thick and brown, cutting him off from the dismal surroundings. This was the home of Mr. Hyde, the favored associate of Henry Jekyll, a man who stood to inherit a fortune of a quarter of a million pounds.

An old woman with a pale face and silver hair opened the door. Her expression was sinister, masked by a veneer of politeness. “Yes, this is Mr. Hyde’s place,” she said, “but he’s not home. He came in very late last night but left again in less than an hour. That’s not unusual; his habits are quite erratic. In fact, I hadn’t seen him for nearly two months until yesterday.”

“Very well, then, we’d like to see his rooms,” the lawyer replied. When the woman insisted it was impossible, he added, “I should probably tell you who we are. This is Inspector Newcomen from Scotland Yard.”

A flash of unpleasant delight crossed the woman’s face. “Ah!” she said, “he’s in trouble! What has he done?”

Mr. Utterson and the inspector exchanged knowing looks. “He doesn’t seem to be a very popular guy,” the inspector remarked. “Now, my good woman, let us take a look around.”

The house, otherwise empty except for the old woman, revealed that Mr. Hyde had only occupied a couple of rooms. Yet, those rooms were furnished with luxury and taste. A closet was stocked with wine, silver plate adorned the table, and elegant linens draped over the furniture. A fine painting hung on the wall, likely a gift from Henry Jekyll, who had an eye for art. The carpets were plush and pleasing to the eye.

However, at that moment, the rooms showed clear signs of having been hastily searched. Clothes were strewn across the floor, pockets turned inside out, drawers stood ajar, and a pile of gray ashes lay in the hearth, suggesting that many papers had been burned. From the ashes, the inspector unearthed the charred remains of a green checkbook that had survived the fire; the other half of the stick was found behind the door. This evidence solidified his suspicions, and the officer couldn’t hide his satisfaction. A visit to the bank confirmed that several thousand pounds were credited to the fugitive’s account, further fueling his delight.

“You can count on it, sir,” he told Mr. Utterson. “I have him in my sights. He must have lost his mind to leave the stick behind or, more importantly, to burn the checkbook. Money is everything to a man like him. All we need to do now is wait for him at the bank and get the wanted posters ready.”

However, that task proved more challenging than expected. Mr. Hyde had few acquaintances; even the maid’s employer had only seen him twice. His family was nowhere to be found, he had never been photographed, and those who could describe him varied widely in their accounts, as is often the case with casual observers. The only consensus among them was the unsettling sense of an unnameable deformity that lingered in the minds of those who encountered him.