INCIDENT OF THE LETTER

von Robert Louis Stevenson

It was late afternoon when Mr. Utterson made his way to Dr. Jekyll’s door. He was quickly admitted by Poole, who led him through the kitchen and across a yard that had once been a garden, to the building that was known as either the laboratory or the dissecting rooms. Dr. Jekyll had purchased the house from the heirs of a famous surgeon, and since his interests leaned more toward chemistry than anatomy, he had repurposed the structure at the end of the garden.

This was the first time the lawyer had been welcomed into this part of his friend’s home. He looked around the dim, windowless space with a mix of curiosity and unease as he crossed the theater, which had once been filled with eager students but now lay empty and silent. Tables were cluttered with chemical equipment, the floor was strewn with crates and packing straw, and light filtered weakly through a foggy dome overhead. At the far end, a staircase led up to a door covered in red fabric, and through this door, Mr. Utterson was finally ushered into the doctor’s study.

The room was spacious, lined with glass cabinets, and furnished with a cheval glass and a business table. Three dusty windows barred with iron overlooked the courtyard. A fire crackled in the grate, and a lamp flickered on the mantel, as the fog thickened outside. There, close to the warmth, sat Dr. Jekyll, looking pale and unwell. He didn’t rise to greet his visitor but extended a cold hand and welcomed him with a voice that sounded different from usual.

“And now,” Mr. Utterson said as soon as Poole left them, “have you heard the news?”

The doctor shuddered. “They were shouting it in the square,” he replied. “I heard them from my dining room.”

“One word,” the lawyer said. “Carew was my client, but so are you, and I need to know what I’m dealing with. You haven’t been foolish enough to hide this man, have you?”

“Utterson, I swear to God,” the doctor exclaimed, “I swear to God I will never see him again. I promise you that I am done with him for good. It’s all over. And honestly, he doesn’t want my help; you don’t know him like I do. He’s safe—mark my words, he will never be heard from again.”

The lawyer listened with a gloomy expression; he didn’t like the feverish way his friend was acting. “You seem quite certain of him,” he said. “And for your sake, I hope you’re right. If this goes to trial, your name might come up.”

“I am certain of him,” Jekyll replied. “I have reasons for my certainty that I can’t share with anyone. But there’s one thing I need your advice on. I’ve received a letter, and I’m unsure whether I should show it to the police. I’d like to leave it with you, Utterson; I trust your judgment.”

“You’re worried it might lead to his capture?” the lawyer asked.

“No,” Jekyll said. “I can’t say I care what happens to Hyde; I’m completely finished with him. I was thinking about my own reputation, which this dreadful situation has put at risk.”

Utterson thought for a moment; he was surprised by his friend’s self-centeredness, yet relieved by it. “Well,” he finally said, “let me see the letter.”

The letter was written in a peculiar, upright handwriting and signed “Edward Hyde.” It stated, rather briefly, that the writer’s benefactor, Dr. Jekyll, whom he had long repaid ungratefully for countless acts of kindness, need not worry about his safety, as he had reliable means of escape. The lawyer found the letter reassuring; it painted a better picture of their relationship than he had expected, and he regretted some of his earlier suspicions.

“Do you have the envelope?” he asked.

“I burned it,” Jekyll replied, “before I realized what I was doing. But it had no postmark. The note was delivered in person.”

“Should I keep this and think it over?” Utterson asked.

“I want you to decide for me completely,” Jekyll said. “I’ve lost faith in myself.”

“Well, I’ll consider it,” the lawyer replied. “And one more thing: it was Hyde who dictated the terms of your will regarding that disappearance?”

The doctor looked suddenly pale, closing his mouth tightly and nodding.

“I knew it,” Utterson said. “He meant to kill you. You had a narrow escape.”

“I’ve learned something far more important,” the doctor said solemnly. “I’ve had a lesson—oh God, Utterson, what a lesson it has been!” He covered his face with his hands for a moment.

As he left, the lawyer paused to speak with Poole. “By the way,” he said, “there was a letter delivered today. What did the messenger look like?” But Poole insisted that nothing had come except through the post, adding, “And only circulars by that.”

The news left the visitor feeling more anxious than ever. Clearly, the letter had come through the laboratory door; it might even have been written in the cabinet itself. If that were the case, it needed to be handled with extra caution. As he walked away, the newsboys shouted hoarsely along the streets: “Special edition! Shocking murder of an M.P.” That was the eulogy for one friend and client, and he couldn’t shake the worry that another’s reputation might be dragged into the scandal. It was a delicate decision he faced, and despite his usual self-reliance, he found himself wishing for some advice. It wasn’t something he could ask for directly, but perhaps he could find a way to draw it out.

Soon after, he sat on one side of his own hearth, with Mr. Guest, his head clerk, on the other side. Between them, at a carefully measured distance from the fire, sat a bottle of a particular old wine that had long been hidden away in the depths of his house. Outside, the fog hung over the drowned city, where the street lamps glimmered like red jewels. Through the thick clouds, the pulse of the city continued to flow, sounding like a great wind. But inside, the room was warm and bright with firelight. The wine had aged beautifully; the harsh acids had mellowed, and its deep color had grown richer over time, much like the hues of stained glass. It was ready to be uncorked and to chase away the London fog.

Gradually, the lawyer began to relax. There was no one he shared fewer secrets with than Mr. Guest, and he wasn’t always sure that he kept as many as he intended. Guest had often been to the doctor’s office; he knew Poole and must have heard about Mr. Hyde’s frequent visits. It made sense for him to see a letter that could clarify that mystery, especially since Guest, being a keen student and critic of handwriting, would likely find it a natural and thoughtful gesture. Besides, the clerk was wise; he couldn’t possibly read such a strange document without making a comment, and that comment could help Mr. Utterson decide his next steps.

“This is a tragic situation with Sir Danvers,” Guest said.

“Yes, it is. It has stirred up a lot of public sentiment,” Utterson replied. “The man was clearly insane.”

“I’d like to hear your thoughts on that,” Utterson said. “I have a document here in his handwriting; it’s just between us, as I’m not quite sure what to do with it. It’s a grim matter, at best. But here it is—an autograph from a murderer.”

Guest’s eyes lit up, and he immediately sat down to examine it with enthusiasm. “No, sir,” he said, “not mad; but it is an unusual hand.”

“And by all accounts, a very unusual writer,” the lawyer added.

Just then, the servant entered with a note.

“Is that from Dr. Jekyll, sir?” the clerk asked. “I thought I recognized the handwriting. Is it something private, Mr. Utterson?”

“Just an invitation to dinner. Why? Do you want to see it?”

“One moment, please. Thank you, sir.” The clerk laid the two sheets of paper side by side and carefully compared their contents. “Thank you, sir,” he finally said, returning both. “It’s a very intriguing autograph.”

There was a moment of silence as Mr. Utterson wrestled with his thoughts. “Why did you compare them, Guest?” he asked suddenly.

“Well, sir,” the clerk replied, “there’s a rather striking resemblance; the two hands are similar in many ways, just with different slants.”

“Quite peculiar,” Utterson remarked.

“It is, as you say, quite peculiar,” Guest agreed.

“I’d prefer if we didn’t discuss this note,” the master said.

“Of course, sir,” the clerk replied. “I understand.”

But as soon as Mr. Utterson was alone that night, he locked the note in his safe, where it would remain from then on. “What!” he thought. “Henry Jekyll forging for a murderer?” A chill ran through his veins.